Tag: travel

Pucker Up, Hot Lips & Other Disastrous Pickup Lines

On By jeanieelizabethIn ReflectionsLeave a comment

Disclaimer:

Before the gentlemen start backing cautiously toward the exit, let me acknowledge the obvious: this works both ways. I’ve known women who used men as a meal ticket. I can’t write their field guide because I haven’t been on the receiving end of it. The Cringe Catalog is always accepting new submissions! Comments open! 😂

The Cringe Catalog: Lounge Lizards in the Wild

I’ve been hit on more often than a piñata — and unlike a piñata, I don’t hand out prizes. In my twenties, I didn’t find it nearly as entertaining. The approaches were awkward and occasionally deserving of an intervention.

Decades later, the lounge lizards have simply aged. The delivery is slower. The material has changed. The mating ritual remains intact.

And dear Lord, do I have stories.

Field Research: The Cruise Ship Lizard

On a recent solo cruise, I encountered the floating lounge lizard.  

I was sitting in the Euphoria Lounge aboard the MAS Paradise when a gentleman approached. No hello. No conversation. Just:

“Pucker up, Hot Lips.”

I replied:

“I’m sure my lip gloss has higher standards.”

And just like that… Hot Lips was denied landing clearance.

Field Notes: Stronger alcohol may be required to erase the visual.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎

Rule #1: Befriend the Bartender

Years ago, my friend Margaret and I went dancing at a nightclub in Delaware. Four engineers from work spotted us. Their leader, John, was an overconfident lothario.

Drinks began appearing behind us — Kamikazes, ordered eagerly.

Then the bartender tapped my shoulder.

“They’re trying to get you drunk.”

He’d seen this act before.

“I’m making your drinks virgin. I’ll tap you and hand you the virgin one.”

The engineers kept ordering. Margaret and I kept “drinking.” We remained perfectly sober.

When we left, we walked straight across the parking lot in three‑inch heels. The engineers staggered behind us. One lunged into my car window — apparently failing to notice it was still up.

Thunk. Forehead met glass. Engineer met pavement.

The next morning, John reported to my boss that I had “drunk them under the table.” I accepted the compliment. No need to correct the record.

Bartenders see everything. Make friends with them. Tip accordingly.

Rule #2: Never Reward a Bad Opening Line

The Computer Geek

Line: “Are you a keyboard? Because I think you’re my type.”
Comeback: “Delete.”      
Field Notes: Terrible. Unfortunately, I laughed.
Survival Rating: 🦎

The Romantic Optimist

Line: “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”
Comeback: “No, walk away and don’t reproduce. The gene pool has suffered enough.”
Field Notes: Ancient material. Points for commitment.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Technologically Challenged

Line: “My phone’s broken. It doesn’t have your number in it.”
Comeback: “My phone filed a restraining order.”
Field Notes: Technology has spoken.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The One Who Almost Pulled It Off

Line: “You seem like trouble. I’m in.”
Comeback: “Okay. Sign the waiver. And buy me a drink.”
Field Notes: Risk acknowledged. Application conditionally approved.
Survival Rating: 🦎 Enough alcohol — that one might actually work.

Rule #3: When Necessary, Return Fire

One evening, the office cad wandered over to my barstool with a plan.

Line: “You get three wishes.”

I took a slow sip of wine.  
           
Comeback: “How about I wish you were gone?”
Field Notes: He gave me three wishes. I only needed one.                 
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎

Rule #4: Never Underestimate Audacity

The Opportunist

Line: “I looked at you and lost my train of thought. I think you owe me a beer.”
Comeback: “Your system failed, and I get a bar tab?”
Field Notes: Cheap‑date warning. Payment denied. 
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Optimist

Line: “Ooh la la… I think you need to date me.”
Comeback: “Sorry. I don’t date for community service hours.”
Field Notes: Confidence exceeded market value.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎

The Straight Shooter

Line: “How about we finish these drinks and start making bad decisions together?”
Comeback: “Do you have references?”
Field Notes: Refreshingly honest. References requested. Decision pending.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎

Rule #5: Escape Routes & Strategic Seating

Years of traveling solo taught me that location matters. I prefer an end seat at a bar — easy access to the bartender, clear view of the room, and most importantly, an unobstructed escape route.

Know the exits. Carry a crossbody purse. And never underestimate the tactical value of landscaping. A strategically placed palm can provide valuable cover.

Rule #6: Master the Art of No

Not every Lounge Lizard requires tactical deployment.

Level 1 — Polite: “No, thank you.”
Level 2 — Firm: “I’m good.”
Level 3 — Warning Shot: “I’m allergic to whatever you’re selling.”
Level 4 — Return Fire: “That line needed a helmet.”
Level 5 — Final Notice: “We’re done here.”

Being friendly never obligates you to entertain anyone. A drink doesn’t buy your phone number.

Rule #7: Know When It Turns Toxic

You moved. He followed. This is important scientific data: the specimen has failed to comprehend the escape attempt.

Change tactics. Be direct. Move toward the staff. If he follows you outside, recruit backup.

Rule #8: When the Rating Scale Breaks

Corporate America unleashed a new species: The Professional Lounge Lizard.

One particular boss — married, self‑proclaimed ladies’ man — once blocked my exit, looked down at me suggestively, and said:

“You look delicious today.”

I blinked. Hard.

Then he added:

“I never eat anything strange unless she’s really worth it.”

My brain refused to process the incoming data.

Actual Comeback: “That was totally inappropriate.”
Field Notes: This behavior escalates. Request reassignment.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎
Some comments deserve their own HR file.

Rule #9: A Pickup Line Does Not Require a Participation Trophy

The Migratory Lounge Lizard

Recently, I was walking across a Walmart parking lot when a man noticed me from a distance. He followed me inside.

Line: “You have the sexiest walk I’ve ever seen. I had to follow you all the way in the door.”
Interrogation: “Are you single?” “Available?” “Can I have your number?”
Comeback: “No, that would be a hard pass.”

He persisted.

Line:  “Can I hug you?”
Comeback: “For what?! You’re about to shop alone.”
Field Notes: Crossing the entire parking lot does not earn a participation trophy.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎
Final Disposition: Return this specimen to the wild.

Rule #10: When Subtlety Fails, Remove All Ambiguity

And then there was Mike, the Neighboring Lounge Lizard. Unfortunately, this specimen lived in the same apartment building.

After a group happy hour where Mike supplied the wine and charcuterie—and then counted how many pieces each of us ate—the red flags began multiplying.

Eventually, he approached me in the parking lot.

Line:  “I want to take you to lunch.”
Comeback:  “No, I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested in lunch… or me?”

He requested clarification.   So I gave it to him.

“Neither.”

Field Notes:  Persistent specimen. Failed to respond to normal deterrents.
Survival Rating: 🦎🦎🦎🦎🦎
Final Disposition: Long-term habitat management required. Do not feed the wildlife.

Final Field Notes

Most Lounge Lizards are harmless. They are funny, charming, and painfully corny. A rare few are clever enough to make you laugh despite yourself. And some should never be permitted to open their mouths after the first cocktail.

But here’s the most useful lesson:

You can be friendly without being available. You can laugh without encouraging. You can say no without apologizing. And you can enjoy a bar, restaurant, nightclub, or cruise ship lounge by yourself without owing anyone else a seat at your table.

Sometimes a polite smile is enough. Sometimes you move. Sometimes you recruit the bartender. And occasionally… You return fire.

I truly believed I’d wrapped up my Lounge Lizard study. Then the universe whispered, “Hold my cocktail.”

A new specimen opened his mouth, and out tumbled fresh, premium-grade nonsense.

Naturally, I reached for my field notes. 

Part of the Reflections Series

Coastal Cowgirl:  Key West and the Case of the Rowdy Rooster

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

Every great island story starts with something falling apart.

One of my favorite memories from this cruise wasn’t an excursion.

It wasn’t the turquoise water.

It wasn’t the chocolate-dipped frozen Key lime pie on a stick.

It was the day my flip-flop was taken hostage by another tourist… and I met the most notorious little outlaw in Key West.

It started innocently enough.

I was standing in line at a shop on Duval Street, patiently waiting for my chance to order the famous Key lime pie.

The tourist in front of me suddenly stepped backward.

Not a gentle bump.

Not a polite little shuffle.

His entire weight landed squarely on my right foot, pinning it to the floor like he’d staked a claim on Florida real estate.

My foot was trapped.

I pulled.

He leaned.

I pulled harder.

SNAP.

The thong of my flip-flop surrendered with all the determination of a beach umbrella in hurricane season.

One second, I was standing there taking in the vibe.

The next…

A tourist blew out my flip-flop.

And that’s when the guy standing behind me started laughing.

“Oh… you’re about to meet Brooster.“

I looked around.

“Who?”

He nodded toward a rooster strutting in our direction with the confidence of a six-inch-tall mob boss collecting protection money.

Apparently, Brooster is infamous on Duval Street.

Not because he’s friendly.

Or charming.

Or the unofficial island mascot.

Brooster is a feathered menace with a rap sheet longer than Key West.

Rumor has it that there are actual Wanted posters

While I was still trying to process that information, Brooster marched straight toward my flip-flop carnage like he’d just been dispatched to investigate the crime scene.

He stopped inches from my foot, puffed out his chest, cocked his head, and stared at my broken sandal with the expression of a detective who’d already solved the case.

Then he looked up at me and let out a loud crow!

I’m fairly certain that translated to…

“Well… that’s not good.”

Before I could object, he took one aggressive step toward my exposed toes.

I jumped.

He pecked, missed, and looked genuinely disappointed.

Then fate intervened.

A little girl walking by me gasped as her key lime pie slipped from her hands and landed on the ground.

Brooster scurried into action.

Within seconds, he was sprinting down Duval Street with a chunk of pie like he’d just robbed the First National Bank of Desserts.

A local glanced over, shrugged, and said,

“Yeah… he does that.”

As if grand theft pie by poultry was simply part of island life.

By now, I was laughing so hard I’d almost forgotten my flip-flop was hanging together by sheer optimism.

The guy behind me was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

“Well… Jimmy Buffett warned you.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

He introduced himself as Nick, an architect who split his time between Palm Beach and Key West on work projects. During those visits, he’d apparently sampled enough Key lime pie to qualify as a local food critic, so he insisted I order his favorite.

Then, before I could object, he quietly paid for it.

As I attempted to hobble away on one functioning flip flop, he looked down and said,

“Hang on… I can fix that.”

Now ladies…

There are few things more attractive than competence.

Especially when it’s unexpectedly applied to your footwear.

We wandered down the Street to his office, where, with the confidence of a man who had clearly repaired everything from staircases to seawalls, he rebuilt my flip-flop in just a few minutes.

Good as new.

Actually… better.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded without a plan.

Nick offered to show me a few local favorites. 

As we wandered Duval Street, we talked about travel, architecture, my fantasy barndominium design, and all the little places tourists usually miss. He pointed out hidden courtyards and his favorite shops and restaurants that most visitors would never discover on their own.

Every few blocks, a rooster strutted across the street like traffic laws were merely suggestions. After a while, I realized Brooster wasn’t the exception… he was simply the most accomplished member of the feathered gang that apparently ran Duval Street.

Before we parted ways, Nick asked what my plans were once the ship docked. I let him know I’d only be in West Palm Beach for a few hours, using a Hilton day pass before catching the Brightline back to Orlando.

We exchanged numbers, and I boarded the ship.

Quiet Storm

On Friday morning, we docked in West Palm Beach beneath dark skies. Thunder rolled overhead, and sheets of rain hammered the deck. I opened the Brightline app to adjust my train time, but the Friday route to Orlando is evidently prime real estate — every seat was sold out.

I was on the phone with the Hilton West Palm Beach, trying to sort out my suddenly complicated day, when my phone pinged.

It was a message from Nick: “Not the best pool day. I’m in Palm Beach. How about a museum and lunch?”

I was beginning to feel like one of Nick’s architectural projects. First the flip-flop repair, and now a rainy-day rescue. Apparently, I had become a work in progress.

Luckily, he offered to come find me rather than the other way around. This was a wise decision on his part.

Navigation has never been my greatest strength.

In the last few days, I had gotten lost driving to the Orlando airport at 5 a.m. to catch the train and turned around on the cruise ship so many times that I began to wonder if I had somehow entered a nautical version of Groundhog Day.

By the time we docked in Freeport, I was so exhausted from trying to locate myself that I slept through the entire day.

In hindsight, Nick’s rescue was less a romantic gesture and more a public safety measure.

We spent the morning wandering through the Norton Museum of Art. I was especially drawn to the Chinese galleries, where centuries-old landscape paintings, jade carvings, and delicate porcelain reminded me how art can tell the story of an entire civilization.

It was pouring rain, so we settled into the museum’s restaurant for a casual lunch. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the sculpture garden.  

After lunch, we crossed the bridge to Palm Beach and wandered through the grand rooms of Whitehall, Henry Flagler’s Gilded Age mansion.   

I somehow found myself in the middle of an impromptu architectural lecture — full hand gestures, historical context, and the unmistakable enthusiasm of someone who has been waiting years to explain cornices.

By late afternoon, the rain had given way to blue skies. We ended the day with a leisurely seafood dinner overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway before he dropped me at the Brightline station to board the train to Orlando.

Mr. Fix-It

Nick is now officially the newest member of my travel tribe — a group of wonderful people I’ve met along the way who remind me that the world is still full of kindness, generosity, and surprises.

Every travel tribe needs a few essential members: the navigator (which I clearly am not), the storyteller, the adventurer, and apparently, Mr. Fixit.

I’m not sure when Nick officially became Mr. Fixit, but the evidence was mounting. First, the flip‑flop. Then, the weather disaster. Give him a broken plan, a little chaos, and apparently, he’s in his element.

Turns out, every great island story really does start with something falling apart — a flip‑flop, a carefully planned itinerary, or a day that refuses to go according to schedule.

But sometimes those are exactly the moments that bring the greatest surprises, the kindest people, and the most unforgettable journeys.

Over dinner, I casually asked Nick if people ever tell him he looks a little like George Clooney. He considered it for approximately half a second and said, “Once in a while.”

Of course. Naturally.

But then he told me the funniest comment he’d ever received:

“If George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan had a love child, I think you’re it.”

I nearly inhaled a shrimp.

Final Thoughts

And that’s when I realized the Travel Gods had really been smiling down on me in Key West.

Not only had I met Mr. Fixit, but I’d also met a man who was intelligent, charming, and generous—all traits that create a solid foundation for friendship.

Forget the Key Lime Pie… THIS was the local attraction.

Well played, Travel Gods. Well played.

As I unpacked my travel case, I looked at the patched-up flip-flop.

Another memory in paradise… courtesy of a broken sandal.

Somewhere in Key West, Jimmy Buffett was probably humming a new tune.

🎵 “The blowouts are nothing but souvenirs with soles.”

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

Tobago: An Episode of ‘As the Island Turns’

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment

The year after Barbados, we visited Tobago.

Tobago wasn’t heavily developed. It was quiet, tropical, and known for its beautiful beaches.

At that time, it was the preferred holiday destination for European men traveling with their mistresses the week between Christmas and New Years.

This was not disclosed during the booking process. We discovered it shortly after arriving.

The entire hotel was full of glamorous young women in impossibly short, designer dresses and men who appeared delighted by the arrangement.

It felt less like checking into a Caribbean resort and more like accidentally walking onto the set of a soap opera.

And then there was us. The only two people at the hotel who weren’t part of the cast.

The resort itself was beautiful. The property stretched across expansive grounds overlooking a private beach, and the food was Michelin worthy.

Had the story ended there, Tobago would have been remembered as a peaceful Caribbean getaway.

It did not.

The Dress Code

The most entertaining part of each day wasn’t the beach.

It was dinner.

Every evening, distinguished gentlemen appeared for dinner accompanied by remarkably beautiful young women whose dresses seemed to contain approximately the same amount of fabric as a cocktail napkin.

It was a trend: there was a severe fabric shortage.

Necklines ignored traditional engineering principles.

David and I would sit quietly at dinner watching the nightly parade while trying very hard not to stare.

We failed frequently.

By the second evening, I had stopped studying the menu and started studying the crowd.

By the third evening, I had stopped photographing the scenery and started gathering evidence.

I carried my camera everywhere — dinner, beach, pool bar.

The absurdity never ended, and I knew no one back home would believe me without proof.

At one point, I hid behind a dinner napkin to take a photograph.

Not because I was a spy.

Because I anticipated future credibility issues.

The Breakfast Buffet Triangle

One morning, we innocently headed toward the breakfast buffet.

Three different women were circling the same man like contestants on a tropical reality show.

One handed him a plate.

One poured his orange juice.

One glared at the other two.

I just wanted a croissant.

The Human Diffuser

David went to get drinks while I relaxed by the pool with a novel.

Before I could blink the pool water from my eyes, one of the resort’s more enthusiastic guests appeared beside my chair.

Without warning, he produced a bottle of perfume and attempted to apply it directly to my chest.

As though he were performing some sort of sacred Caribbean blessing ritual.

My reflexes reacted before my brain.

I waved him off. “What?! Eww, no. Wrong woman, Romeo — go find your girlfriend.”

He shrugged and disappeared.

I resumed reading.

A few moments later, I glanced at the table beside my chair.

The perfume bottle was sitting there.

I had no idea whether he forgot it, left it intentionally, or considered it part of his presentation.

I stared at the bottle.

The bottle stared back.

David returned with our drinks.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just a playboy making the rounds.”

David nodded.

By that point, it felt less like conversation and more like a status update.

The Poolside Incident

Apparently, I wasn’t the only source of confusion.

A gentleman settled into the lounge chair beside mine and immediately moved it close enough for us to share an atmosphere.

A few moments later, an attractive woman in oversized sunglasses stormed over and began yelling at him.

While pointing at me.

Although I didn’t understand the language, the message seemed fairly clear. Who is she?!

I pointed toward David.

“I’m with him.”

The woman stormed away.

The man jumped into the pool.

We relocated to the bar.

Sometimes retreat is the best strategy.

Witnesses Remained on Scene

New Year’s Eve arrived with excellent food, beautiful weather, and a level of entertainment that nobody could have anticipated.

The hotel hosted a New Year’s Eve dinner under the stars.

Tables surrounded the pool.

Champagne flowed.

Live music played.

Everything was lovely.

Until someone’s wife arrived.

What followed involved shouting, pushing, hair-pulling, and a level of public relationship management that would have required several therapists and at least two attorneys.

As someone interested in photography, I felt an obligation to document the unfolding chaos.

As a spectator, I didn’t want to miss a second of it.

As a woman enjoying a perfectly good chocolate dessert, I was also concerned about preserving my front-row seat and avoiding flying debris.

It was a difficult balancing act.

David and I exchanged a glance.

The kind married couples develop after years together.

An entire conversation without a single word.

Should we leave?

Absolutely not.

We picked up our dessert forks and continued watching.

At that point, we were emotionally invested.

Besides, it seemed rude to leave before the conclusion.

Beyond the Resort

We didn’t spend the entire week observing resort guests and wondering what spectacle might unfold next.

Mornings were often spent on the golf course, with afternoons reserved for exploring the island.

The concierge booked us on a rainforest excursion that involved bouncing through the island in a 4×4 before hiking to a waterfall hidden beneath the jungle canopy.

We wandered through local villages, traced the curve of the coastline, and discovered that Tobago’s real magic wasn’t in the resort, but in the people, the beaches, the rainforest, and the unhurried rhythm that shaped everyday life.

That exploration led me back to the beach for a horseback ride.

My guide, Michael, was calm and friendly — the kind of steady presence that seemed woven throughout the island.

It was booked as a group ride but ended up being just the two of us. We started with a bareback walk along the shoreline before easing into the warm Caribbean water.

My horse’s name was Mango, a name she’d earned from her obsession with the fruit. Evidently, she pulled mangoes straight from the tree behind her pasture. She also loved bananas — peel and all — which seemed perfectly suited to her personality.

Mango moved through the water with easy confidence, even as we ventured into deeper blue where the horses could swim. Her rhythm was steady, unbothered, almost meditative.

For an hour, the island stopped feeling chaotic.

No unexpected spectacles.

Just a horse, a quiet guide, warm water, and a stretch of Caribbean coastline.

Finally, Tobago showed me its softer side.

Alice, We Need to Talk

We flew home on New Year’s Day.

As our plane lifted off from Tobago, I found myself thinking about sweet, old Alice.

In Barbados, she enthusiastically recommended her three favorite Caribbean islands.

Barbados had given me a pharmaceutical taxi and a machete-wielding fruit vendor.

Tobago had turned out to be a front-row seat to an international soap opera.

I was beginning to wonder about Alice.

I couldn’t decide whether she was oblivious to the chaos around her, or simply so accustomed to Caribbean madness, that none of it seemed noteworthy.

Either way, I realized that Alice had left out a few key details.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series

World Equestrian Center, Ocala: Where Hoofbeats and Luxury Meet

On By jeanieelizabethIn Lessons from the HerdLeave a comment

Horses don’t overthink the open gate—they simply move through it.

What began as a day trip turned into an overnight stay at the Riding Academy Hotel. Traveling solo offers the freedom to change plans and lean into the unexpected.

That confidence wasn’t built overnight.

It was earned one ride at a time.

For years, horses quietly taught me to trust my instincts, stay steady when things veered off course, and keep moving forward.

Those may be the greatest gifts we give children in riding lessons—not ribbons or trophies, but the quiet confidence to handle unexpected obstacles.

The best lessons from the herd are subtle. We rarely recognize their relevance until we find ourselves at a crossroads.

World Equestrian Center

I had seen photos of Ocala’s World Equestrian Center, and heard the rave reviews, but nothing prepared me for seeing it in person.

The first surprise wasn’t the horses.

It was the scale.

For a property this expansive, it feels welcoming rather than overwhelming. Perfect landscaping, elegant architecture, beautiful courtyards, and world-class competition create an atmosphere that feels more luxury resort than horse show grounds.

The Equestrian Hotel has crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and beautiful horse and dog artwork that makes you want to sink into a leather chair and enjoy the ambiance.

Despite the opulence, horses remain the heart of the facility. Whether you’re an equestrian or simply appreciate watching incredible athletes—both horse and rider—the competitions are mesmerizing.

I took a seat in the Grand Arena at sunset. Under the glow of arena lights, horse and rider flowed across the course with a rhythm that made every jump appear effortless. Everyone in the stands knew those few flawless minutes represented years of training, trust, and unwavering commitment.

By day, the facility is luxurious; at night, it transforms into something magical. On the walk back to the hotel, the illuminated horse logo glowed brilliantly against the arena wall, a striking reminder that even the smallest details had been thoughtfully designed.

A Room with Equestrian Charm

I stayed at the Riding Academy Hotel, which offers the same elegant feel as the Equestrian Hotel but on a smaller scale.

My room was spacious, comfortable, and thoughtfully decorated. My favorite detail was the whimsical artwork of a dog riding horseback hanging on the wall.

The entire property is dog-friendly, and well-behaved four-legged guests seemed almost as common as horses.

Parking is free, including a covered garage across from the hotel.

A new section of shops and restaurants is currently under construction as WEC continues to expand and elevate the guest experience.

A Detour to Silver Springs

Before driving home, I stopped at Silver Springs State Park to hike the River Trail to see if I could spot the famous wild monkeys.

The shaded boardwalk trail winds through towering trees and across the crystal-clear river where kayakers quietly drift beneath the bridge.

At first, nothing.

Then, on the paved trail along the river, the monkey’s appeared.

The signs make one thing perfectly clear: Do not feed the wildlife.

A couple beside me were watching two monkeys perched just above the trail. When the gentleman stepped a little too close for a better photograph, one monkey abruptly stood, shook the branches, and loudly informed him that his photo session was over.

Message received.   

Most of the monkeys seemed perfectly content to pose from the trees like tiny furry Buddhas, calmly munching leaves while people snapped pictures below.

My favorite was the monkey who deliberately turned around and presented its adorable little monkey backside directly toward my camera.

Apparently, not all monkeys want to be famous.

Final Thoughts

Sometimes the herd’s greatest gift isn’t teaching us how to ride.

It’s teaching us how to live.

Long after the saddles are put away, those lessons continue to appear in last-minute detours, unfamiliar trails, and quiet moments when we realize we’re capable of more than we once believed.

Courage is usually quiet — the kind you build one step at a time.

Freedom often waits just beyond the places we’re hesitant to explore.

And sometimes an open gate isn’t something to question.

It’s simply an invitation.

Part of the Lessons from the Herd Series

Venice: Sun, Sand, and a Thirsty Ghost

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

My trip to Venice, Florida began as a meaningful mission tied to a deeply personal project.

Years ago, while sorting through my late mother-in-law’s belongings, I discovered a remarkable World War I poster printed in Port Talbot, Wales. It features my mother‑in‑law, Hannah, alongside three local women — a piece of history tucked quietly in the back of her wardrobe.

This fragile artifact traveled across the ocean, survived decades of moves, and was now in a restoration studio in downtown Venice that specializes in vintage paper preservation.

I extended this trip into an overnight stay — just enough time to deliver the poster and enjoy a little fresh seafood and coastal ambiance before driving home.

Venice is one of those charming beach towns that feels equal parts laid-back surf town, old Florida charm, and a sun-washed stretch of coastal calm.

The day started at Nokomis Public Beach. 

Of course, I turned the wrong way at a dead-end and drove a few scenic miles before being redirected by a friendly bicyclist.

My internal GPS clearly thinks this is hilarious. But the payoff?  

Warm, green Gulf waters, seashell sand, and a few hours of pure bliss.

Nokomis beach is one of those understated treasures.  It’s an uncrowded beach with free parking and lifeguards on duty. 

I sat quietly on the beach, letting myself sink into the rhythm of green surf, drifting seabirds, and the soft hum of people-watching.

The Gulf was calm and warm.
The sand gritty from decades of crushed seashells washing ashore.

Shells stretched along the shoreline like scattered evidence of the ocean’s long memory.

There’s something about the Gulf Coast that slows your heartbeat the second you arrive.

No rush. No agenda.

Just the perfect combination of warm breeze, salt air, sunscreen, and the distant sound of flip-flops slapping pavement.

I didn’t collect any of the shark’s teeth Nokomis Beach is known for.

But as I sat there, toes buried in the sand, my fingers brushed against a pale lilac shell — delicate, luminous — the kind you instantly decide is special enough to keep, even if you can’t explain why.

I ended up at nearby Pelican Alley for lunch— a casual seafood spot with good food and apparently… paranormal activity.

Which nobody warned me about.

My server, Hannah, continuously refilled my iced tea.

But somehow, the tea level seemed to drop faster than I could drink it.

By the third refill, I casually mentioned it to my server.

That’s when I learned Pelican Alley is infamous for ghost stories and paranormal encounters.

Which explained a lot.

Because at some point during lunch, I’m fairly certain someone whispered lottery numbers into my ear.

And of course, I played them.

Because if a ghost takes the time to communicate financial guidance, it just feels rude not to participate.

Sadly, the spirits and I did not achieve generational wealth together.

But I respect the effort.

After lunch, I went to historic downtown Venice — brick sidewalks, breezy palms, and that soft golden light that makes you want to linger.

Everywhere you look there’s another little café, boutique, or wine bar.

And then I saw it.

A blackboard sign outside Trattoria da Mino restaurant that simply read:

“Mino’s Favorite: Naughty Woman Pizza.”

I had to know what was on a Naughty Woman Pizza. Turns out it’s a simple, yet divine combination: buffalo mozzarella, tomato sauce, fresh basil, and a drizzle of olive oil.

Elegant. Fiery. Tempting. Exactly like the name promised.

I don’t know what else I was expecting.

But there’s absolutely no scenario where I can walk past a sign like that without stopping to investigate.

This is how road trips become stories.

Less planning and more discovery.

No trip to the area would be complete without a visit to Siesta Key Village.

I arrived with a loose plan for dinner.  After previewing menus, I decided on the outdoor dining patio at The Cottage.

I ordered the grilled salmon with asparagus and black rice. It was restorative — simple, coastal, and quietly perfect.

Driving around Nokomis and Venice is never the same twice; every turn feels like a new little adventure. You never know what treasure you’ll stumble across — like a pelican mailbox so colorful it practically waves you down.

Like most Florida coastal towns, Venice has an abundance of fresh seafood restaurants.

Even more memorable are the cold drinks with little lime wedges that somehow make everything seem healthier.

I happened upon Burgundy Square Cafe on Miami Avenue and sampled the grilled lobster roll sandwich with cucumber and tomato salad. The vinaigrette dressing was memorable, and my server was quick to point out that it’s a custom, proprietary blend.

Venice has that effortless coastal energy that encourages you to linger with just one more iced tea to watch the world stroll by.

It has a relaxed vibe without even trying.

A little quirky.
A little haunted.
A little sun kissed.

By the end of my short beach reset, I realized…

I had stumbled on the fun part of Venice entirely by accident.

Ghosts. Naughty Pizza. Unexpected laughs.

Sometimes the best trips happen when you just follow the coastline and see what finds you there.

Even if it’s a ghost.

Or pizza with questionable branding.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl series

Coastal Cowgirl: Wastin’ Away on Margaritaville

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

A friend once said, “I want to travel with you once… just to see what unfolds.”

My vacations do tend to drift into the unpredictable.

I had a perfectly reasonable Miami and Lauderdale travel plan… then an ad floated across my screen, and suddenly, I’m on a cruise ship heading for the Bahamas.

Robot Hostage

I exited the Brightline train in West Palm Beach. Reserved my Uber ride and waited. 

Obviously, I missed the fine print because a vehicle showed up with no driver.

I confirmed the license plate and decided to give it a try. 

This was my first mistake.

It drove beautifully on the highway. Smooth. Controlled. Law abiding.

It dutifully stopped on a green light for pedestrians in the crosswalk… but then encountered a hiccup.

The light turned yellow.  Then red. Then green again.

I finally said:  “The light’s green. You can go now.”

A pleasant robotic voice replied:  “I am providing a safe ride.”

Cars were swerving around us. Horns were honking. 

“Respectfully,” I said, “this is not safe. You are stopped at a green light!”

The car remained committed to its decision.

It finally moved but stopped at another green light for absolutely no reason.

By this point, I’m yelling:  “Go! It’s Green!”  

The car calmly replied:  “Do you have a problem with my driving?”

Frustrated, I reply:  “Um-yeah!  You’re not driving?!”

When we finally arrived at the cruise port, I opened the rear door to exit.

The car drove off with the door half-opened and circled the parking lot.
“We have reached the destination.  Please exit safely.”

I gathered my belongings, but the car abruptly pulled forward 100 feet and stopped.

This was clearly a low-speed kidnapping.

Port security finally rescued me by blocking the vehicle while I escaped.

The car and I exchanged parting words.

I cannot repeat them because one of us was using profanity.

Adopted by the Bachelors

By this point, I needed a cocktail.

At cruise check-in, I was unexpectedly adopted by a bachelor party – and an inflatable bride.

The groom carried his inflatable companion under his arm like a designer handbag.

This set the tone.

Every time they spotted me on the ship they immediately broke into a chorus of 🎵 I Dream of Jeanie 🎵

This mostly occurred when I walked past them at a bar.

I was seated alone in the Euphoria Lounge listening to the band when I glanced over and noticed the inflatable bride had taken the empty seat next to me.

Apparently, I had been assigned custody.

My favorite bartender, Mario, arrived with a glass of wine for Dolly…. Compliments of the bachelors.  

Dolly was surprisingly good company. She never complained nor asked for a second Chardonnay.

Passengers were taking photos of our coupling. Dolly and I became an unintended cruise ship attraction.

My standard line became: “Don’t encourage her… she’s full of hot air.”

Nassau and the Minnow Incident

After wandering the port shops, I found a lounge chair at the Margaritaville Resort beach. The water was crystal clear. The sand was beautiful.

I walked to the shoreline and noticed thousands of tiny minnows. They covered the shallows like a living underwater carpet.

After years of finding myself in questionable situations, I’ve developed a simple rule:  Observe first. Participate later.

A group of young women ran down the beach carrying a frozen drink in each hand.

Without hesitation, they charged directly into the water.

Apparently, tiny fish have no respect for personal boundaries.

The minnows swarmed.  The women shrieked.

One emerged from the water attempting a full-scale swimsuit extraction.

Nassau rum punch has only two settings:  Fruit Juice and Future Regret.

There is no middle setting.

This sign on the walk back to the ship sums up my day in Nassau pretty well:

The Game Show That Nearly Went Off the Rails

On sea day, I wandered into Euphoria Lounge and happened upon a game show.

The challenge seemed harmless — Cowboys vs. Cowgirls.

The goal: create the longest line using articles of clothing.

Simple. Innocent. What could go wrong?

The answer arrived quickly.

Shoes, hats, shirts, pants, dresses, socks, belts… all became projectiles.

Soon contestants were standing around in their underwear while spectators cheered.

Then… one enthusiastic cowboy hooked his thumb into the waistband of his final remaining garment.

The cruise director saw disaster approaching.

Over the microphone came a panicked announcement:  “NO!  Underwear must stay on!”

The room exploded with laughter.  Mothers looked horrified.

The perils of never-ending alcohol are not to be underestimated.

A simple afternoon game show suddenly became an intervention.

Late‑Night Escapades  

Late‑night cruise people are a species. I felt like an anthropologist with a front‑row seat. Human behavior after unlimited margaritas and a steel drum band is a social experiment on steroids.

I skipped dinner one night and wandered into the midnight pizza station.

Cruise ships offer many forms of entertainment, but inappropriate attire is easily top‑tier.

There were pajamas. Skirts so short the ass‑cheeks were filing for emancipation.

Outfits that suggested their owners had packed in the dark, during a power outage, while under extreme time constraints.

This is the Groom. The Bachelors hid his clothes and left him this to wear. He confided to me that he didn’t expect many passengers to be at the Pizza Station at midnight…. he was mortified.

Late‑night attire seemed to operate under entirely different laws of fashion. Garments that would never leave the house on land roamed freely at sea, like feral textiles.

The pizza was delicious. But the entertainment value…. absolutely priceless.

Art Auction

The final evening, I attended the onboard art auction. 

During the preview, I met a lovely couple named Grace and David. We ended up sitting together for the auction event.

Grace and I both won a free art piece in a random drawing contest.

I selected Love Is In The Air by Jim Warren — colorful, whimsical, slightly eccentric.

Much like the cruise itself.

Why This Cruise Was Different

It wasn’t a mega ship, but that turned out to be one of its strengths. There was always something happening, yet it never felt crowded or overwhelming.

The crew was exceptional.

Michael and Navneet

Everywhere I went, crew greeted guests with smiles, remembered names, and genuinely seemed invested in making everyone’s vacation special.

I’ve sailed ships with more attractions. I’ve rarely sailed one with friendlier people.

Palm Beach Jose…

After the cruise, I took the Brightline to Miami.

While waiting, I conversed with a nice gentleman seated across the aisle. 

He was heading to a World Cup match and enthusiastically rooting for Argentina.

After finding my assigned seat, I heard a familiar voice.

“What are the odds?” he laughed. He was assigned the seat next to mine.

He introduced himself as Jose.  We talked about soccer with Jose offering his predictions. The conversation moved on to travel.

As he exited in Aventura, he handed me his contact information.

“I’m an attorney in Palm Beach. If you ever need anything, just call.”

Married. Respectful. And now a distant travel memory.

One Night in Miami

I spent one night at the beautiful Andaz Hotel, located on Miami beach. The hotel is situated on the beach with direct access to the Beachwalk, a paved hiking trail.

I met Ashley at the pool bar grille over lunch. She was in town from D.C. to host her sister’s bachelorette party.

Andaz is one of those places where you can walk out of the lobby and immediately feel a beach reset.

I moved to the beach in the afternoon and was seated next to a lovely British woman named Siobhan. (She pronounced it Sha-Von), also visiting from D.C.

One of my favorite things about travel is how these encounters happen naturally. Complete strangers end up sharing stories about life, work, travel, and everything in between simply because they happen to be standing in the same beautiful place.

We exchanged contact information, and instantly, Siobhan became part of my memorable travel tribe.

People Watching in Lauderdale

Next came a two-night stay at Hyatt Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale. This hotel is centrally located right on Las Olas Blvd and the Riverwalk where you can board the water taxi.

I didn’t sample the Hyatt’s dinner menu, but I did have a glass of wine with dessert one evening… and let’s just say… there were no regrets.

While wandering the boulevard, I stumbled into a charming café called WorthWyld.

The manager welcomed me and mentioned happy hour would start in about an hour.

“You should come back.”

At 5 p.m., I found myself seated on the outdoor patio with a glass of chardonnay and an order of chicken satay.

The hostess, Nina, suggested the patio. “It’s fun to people-watch from here,” she said.

Immediately, I knew we spoke the same language.

People watching is one of travel’s most underrated attractions.

My server, Dalia, joined the conversation and asked how my vacation was going.

“Absurd things tend to happen to me.”

Naturally, Nina and Dalia wanted examples.

So I told them about arguing with artificial intelligence on the way to the cruise port.

Both laughed.

The food was excellent. The atmosphere was relaxed. The conversation was genuine.

I enjoyed it so much that I returned the following evening.

This time I ordered the bison keftedes with a glass of Chardonnay.

Nina wasn’t working that night, but Dalia immediately remembered me.

“How was your day?” she asked.

That question led directly into one of the strangest breakfast conversations I’ve ever accidentally overheard.

If you’re reading, ladies…. Cheers!   And thanks for making my time on the boulevard memorable.

Random Dating Before Breakfast

I was enjoying breakfast at a café when I found myself seated next to what appeared to be a first meetup.

At first everything seemed normal.

Coffee. Small talk. The usual get-acquainted questions.

Then the young man started asking more personal questions.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

To my surprise, she answered — and it was clearly a flirtation.

At this point I was feeling like a voyeur. It was definitely too much information for 7 a.m.

My bill arrived shortly thereafter, and I made a strategic exit before learning anything else about either participant’s preferences.

Later, when I recounted this story to Dalia, I asked: “Is that a dating question now?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

I found myself contemplating how I might have answered.

My preference? “I wear boundaries. You should try them sometime.”

Final Thoughts

Looking back, I remember the beaches, the turquoise water, and the places.

But the best memories are the people I met along the way.

Even the robot car that argued with me about traffic lights had personality.

The Bahamas was the itinerary… but the people were the journey.

Their memories remain long after the tan fades and the suitcase is tucked away –

…still holding a few stubborn grains of sand — a subtle reminder that the next adventure has already started whispering.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

Barbados — The Beach Ride and the Pharmaceutical Taxi

On By jeanieelizabethIn Riding on VacationLeave a comment
View overlooking the Sandy Cove at Coconut Creek Hotel

Barbados was a long-standing bucket-list island, so we finally booked a stay at Coconut Creek in St. James, a small cliff-top hotel on Barbados’ west coast.

A staircase wound down to the beach below, where sailboats rested on the sand waiting for the day’s first drift into the calm Caribbean water.

The hotel had a cricket-themed bar—a reminder that in Barbados, cricket wasn’t just a sport. It was part of the culture.

It was at Coconut Creek that we met a lovely woman named Alice. Every summer, she left Britain behind and went island-hopping through Barbados, Tobago, and Antigua.

Alice spoke about the islands with the confidence of someone who had explored the Caribbean for years. She described each one in detail, carefully explaining their differences and charms. More importantly, she made it clear that these weren’t simply places she enjoyed visiting—they were, in her opinion, the three best islands in the Caribbean.

At the time, we listened politely and tucked her recommendations away.

The Beach

The sandy cove had its own rhythm — warm sand and the fading footprints of early morning beach walks.

The Cricket Club

Cricket was everywhere in Barbados, so it wasn’t surprising that Coconut Creek had its own Cricketeers Bar.

One afternoon, while enjoying a Red Stripe, David struck up a conversation with Kevin, the bartender, about cricket. It quickly became apparent that he knew far more than the average tourist.

When Kevin learned about David’s cricket accomplishments in Wales, his eyes widened. He immediately reached across the bar to shake his hand and promptly served him another Red Stripe.

In Barbados, that was apparently the cricket equivalent of being recognized by royalty.

A small pair of trophy bats still hang on my wall. They remind me of the athlete David was, and the path he never got to finish.

Life changes direction in ways we never expect. An illness ended his professional cricket career, but he went on to earn his PhD in Physics.

A single moment can change everything you once took for granted.

The Beach Ride

Every island we visited had its own personality, and Barbados was no different.

We booked a beach trail ride with a local stable and took a taxi across the island.

The guide was an American named Chuck, and I was paired with a palomino named Nugget.

The ride itself was incredible—a beautiful stretch of deserted beach where the horses walked through the sand and surf at a relaxed pace.

Everything about it felt peaceful and sun-washed, the kind of experience that makes you wonder why you don’t simply stay in the islands forever.

After the ride, Chuck offered us a ride back to the hotel.

I climbed into his car still floating somewhere between beach bliss and heat exhaustion when I noticed pills.

Everywhere.

In the cup holders.

On the floorboards.

Rolling across the console during turns like loose change.

The vehicle looked less like transportation and more like a pharmaceutical scavenger hunt.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of David seated in the back seat.

“What are all these pills?” He asked.

Chuck never blinked.

“Uppers, downers … help yourself.”

I considered this generous offer for exactly one second.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a hard pass.”

He offered no further explanation.

We asked no further questions.

We simply continued toward the hotel while assorted mystery tablets migrated around the car like tiny tourists.

Machete Dude

Barbados seemed determined to keep me slightly on edge.

When I got out of Chuck’s vehicle, I made the mistake of stopping to photograph a colorful roadside fruit cart.

I captured one quick photo, but the vendor turned just as I was about to snap a second shot.

Before I could lower the camera, he waved the machete and began enthusiastically explaining—with dramatic hand gestures—that photographs apparently required payment.

At that point, I decided the fruit cart no longer needed documenting.

I consider that one of my better travel decisions.

Island Treasures

I always looked for unique art while traveling through the Caribbean, and Barbados did not disappoint.

I wandered into a small studio filled with beautiful hand‑dyed batiks, each one more vibrant than the last.

I purchased three batiks, and this colorful fish still hangs on my wall today — a little burst of island color that never lost its magic.


The Island and I had Words

Barbados was lovely.

The beaches were beautiful. The people were welcoming. 

But everywhere I turned, some new form of chaos seemed to be waiting.

At some point, I concluded that Barbados and I simply weren’t in sync.

The island was trying very hard to provide a relaxing Caribbean vacation.

The Final Verdict: Barbados failed to make the repeat list.

We mutually agreed to give it a few years and see other people.

Part of the Riding on Vacation Series


Coastal Cowgirl: Naples, Florida

On By jeanieelizabethIn Coastal CowgirlLeave a comment

When I first moved to Florida in May, 2022, I lived in an apartment while I searched for my new home. I explored the state like a woman who had been handed a map, a full tank of gas, and absolutely no reason to stay home.

Every week brought another town, another “maybe I live here now” moment. In each place, I explored what life might look like there—but most importantly, I evaluated riding options, boarding stables for Rosie, and nearby hiking trails.

I began on the Gulf Coast in Naples—the polished, palm-lined, rosé-at-lunch version of Florida.

Naples offered everything I needed for a soft landing: beaches, shopping, and the kind of Gulf breezes that make you forget you once survived life in the Sonoran Desert.

When I relocated from Phoenix, I traded blazing, bone-dry heat for something softer—still hot but wrapped in humidity.

I grew up on the East Coast, so the air here felt more like home than anything the desert ever offered.

Life Beneath the Flight Path

I stayed at the Hyatt House on 5th Avenue, perfectly positioned along the Gordon River Marina and walking distance to Tin City. It was the ideal base.

Well… ideal except for one tiny detail.

The room I booked overlooked the river from the back of the hotel—which, as I soon learned, sits directly beneath the flight path for Naples Airport.

One afternoon, I was sitting on my balcony, relaxing like a woman who had finally found her Florida calm. The sky was blue, the air was warm, the river was quiet…

And then— a loud whoosh overhead.

A jet came over so low I felt like I could read the pilot’s name tag.

The first time it happened, I didn’t just flinch—I instinctively ducked.  That first one spooked me harder than a horse encountering a plastic grocery bag.

Still, Naples had me hooked.

A Coastal Cowgirl Needs a Horse

No Florida chapter of mine would be complete without a horseback ride, so I found a local stable and joined a group trail ride through the wooded, sandy paths of Golden Gate Estates.

The horses were steady, the guide was friendly, and the trails felt like stepping into a quieter, wilder version of Naples.

It was the perfect blend of coastal and cowgirl—palm trees, pine flatwoods, and the soft thud of hooves on sugar sand.

As I drove through Golden Gate Estates, I caught myself daydreaming—the kind of daydream where you buy a few acres, build a barndominium, and give your horse the kind of at-home life that makes both of you happy.

Then reality arrived in the form of a single word: Hurricanes.

At the time, I had absolutely no hurricane experience.

The last thing I wanted was to find myself trying to evacuate a horse while half of South Florida attempted to leave at the same time.

I had evacuated horses ahead of a wildfire in Arizona. But I knew those roads and it wasn’t a mass exodus.

Standing in Golden Gate Estates, I realized I wasn’t ready to repeat that experience with hurricanes.

That was the moment I knew Naples—and other beach communities—could be my escape, my coastal reset, but not my home base.

So I stayed in Central Florida, where hurricanes remain a possibility but the logistics are kinder, and I let the coasts become my playground instead of my responsibility.

Hiking the Wild Side of Naples

Every place I’ve lived, I’ve adjusted my riding and hiking to the local terrain.

Delaware and the Jersey Shore offered parks and long beach walks. Arizona traded shade for red rock, elevation gains, and desert washes. Florida introduced me to mangroves, pine flatwoods, and wetlands.

The terrain changed; the daily mileage simply found a new backdrop.

As an avid hiker, I normally cover six to eight miles a day, six days a week, so Naples’ trails and boardwalks were an easy invitation.

I relied heavily on the AllTrails app to help me find routes that wouldn’t leave me lost, isolated, or starring in a local news segment.

My first hike was the Gordon River Greenway, a peaceful 2.8-mile out-and-back trail combining paved pathways and elevated boardwalks through mangroves and shaded wetlands.

From there, I ventured into Florida’s largest state park: Fakahatchee Strand Preserve.

The Big Cypress Bend Boardwalk stretches 2,500 feet through spectacular swamp scenery before ending at an observation deck overlooking an alligator pond.

It’s the kind of place where you half expect a nature documentary narrator to emerge from the trees.

I also hiked a section of the Florida Trail along East Main Tram, an easy four-mile out-and-back route following former logging roads.

Parts were muddy but manageable, and thanks to the wisdom of previous hikers posting on AllTrails, I wore waterproof boots instead of discovering the mud the hard way.

Tin City After Dark

No Naples visit would be complete without a stop at Tin City, conveniently located within walking distance of the Hyatt.

The shops were fun. The waterfront was beautiful.

But the real entertainment arrived after dark.

One evening, as I dined on the open-air deck at Riverwalk, a party boat returned to the dock carrying passengers who were enthusiastically singing to the music.

They were blissfully happy, rum-punch powered, and ready to toast anything that wasn’t nailed down.

My favorite was the final passenger to leave the boat.

She was still dancing to music that no longer existed.

The crew attempted to guide her down the gangway.

One even tried dancing her toward the exit.

Eventually she was escorted safely onto the dock, where she continued performing for the benefit of waterfront diners.

Last I saw, she was twirling toward the nearest bar like an adorable dancing diva.

Not Every Place Is Meant to Be Home

The best part of Naples has always been its effortless elegance.

The soft Gulf light and the calm water. The breezes that feel like an exhale.

Naples never seems to demand attention. It simply exists, confident in what it is, and that quiet existence is part of its charm.

When I was searching for a place to call home, Naples taught me something important: not every place you love is meant to be where you live.

Some places become escapes, others become the places you return to when life feels too loud.

Every visit reminds me why it remains one of my favorite coastal escapes—a place where nature, adventure, and coastal elegance come together effortlessly.

Part of the Coastal Cowgirl Series

If My Life Were a Radio Playlist

On By jeanieelizabethIn UncategorizedLeave a comment 





 
There’s something about getting in the car
that creates a false sense of control.
Destination set.
Coffee secured.
Confidence high.





And yet—





somewhere along the way,
the plan dissolves,
decisions are made without my full consent,
and I find myself navigating situations
I was not prepared for.





If my life were a road trip,
this would be the playlist—
the moments, the miscalculations,
and the quiet acceptance
that we are just going to see how this goes.










Departure Dilemma





I finally leave the house.
Momentum achieved.
A deceptively smooth beginning — always suspicious.

Three blocks later, my brain casually informs me
that the overnight bag
is still sitting in the driveway.
Just… out there. 

Watching me leave.
Like we had a plan
and it chose
not to participate.










Unexpected Road Hazard





Everything was fine.
Clear roadway ahead.

And then—

a rocking chair decides to exit a moving pickup 
and openly defy physics.

It is now hurling straight at my windshield 
at a speed I would classify as unwelcome.

It’s shredding mid air like homemade shrapnel.

And suddenly, I’m a target.

The chair abandons its mission 
and targets someone else.
I can breathe again.










Parallel Parking Jury

No one was around.
Until I tried to park
in the only space available 
a space so small
it feels like a setup.

And now—

there’s a small gathering
of strangers

watching me perform
what can only be described as

a slow, public unraveling—

with occasional pointing
for emphasis.










 Coffee Override

No hesitation.
No debate.

Whatever direction I was going in
is no longer relevant.

Caffeine has spoken—
and I respect the authority.










Next Rest Area – 50 Miles





Hydration has consequences.

At the time,
it felt responsible.
Healthy, even.

Now it feels…
like a personal betrayal.

And a situation.










The Cone Vendetta

It was clearly visible. 
Bright orange. 
Highly avoidable.

And yet— somehow

it has attached itself to my vehicle 
like an invited guest

scraping the road, 
in full plastic despair.

I have emotionally divorced myself 
from its journey.










Cruise Control Disconnect

Everything is fine.
The car is basically driving itself.

I am, at best,
middle management.

All is smooth— 
until it misses a turn.

And I am suddenly yelling
at the car like
this is a collaboration.

Which is when I realize
it has inherited
my sense of direction.

And is now
a curse on wheels.










Golden Arches Ambush

It seemed harmless. 
Just me and a small order of fries.

And then—
one seagull.
Followed by… friends.

Now I am surrounded by birds
on the hood of my car, 
peering through the windshield

with the confidence of diners
who believe this is a shared meal 
and I simply didn’t get the memo.










Toll Booth Incident

Everything was normal 
approaching the toll.

And then—
the car next to me. 
Children. 
A bucket.

Suddenly— frogs. 
Everywhere.

The toll collector is in the street
dancing

like a man
who has been personally
betrayed by amphibians.










The LED Love Guru

The sign flashes:

“No Valentine?
Your seatbelt will hold you.”

Absolutely not.

I refuse to take dating advice
from a road sign
that has seen things

and is one overhead sighting away
from witness protection.










In the end,
it isn’t about the road trip 
or survival.

It’s about accepting 
that somedays, I am 
the universe’s 
test subject.










If your life had a soundtrack,
what song absolutely
belongs on the playlist?












 












			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Where The World Still Feels Untouched

						

				On  By jeanieelizabethIn Travel JournalLeave a comment			

					


		

			






There are places in the world where animals watch you.
And then there’s the Galápagos—
where they don’t.





There’s no fear in their eyes. No instinct to run. No sense that you don’t belong.
You’re not observing wildlife.
You’re stepping into their world.










Quito felt like an introduction… but not the destination.





The Marriott was familiar, predictable — a place to land before stepping into something I couldn’t quite picture yet. The next day brought the expected stops — the equator line, the views, the market, a lunch that felt more staged than real. It was interesting, even enjoyable, but still within the rhythm of travel. Structured. Explained. Designed for you.





It all made sense.





Until it didn’t.










Somewhere between Quito and the islands, the world shifted.





Smaller plane. Fewer people. More distance between things.
Less noise. Less urgency.





By the time we boarded the Celebrity Xpedition, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a typical trip. The ship didn’t feel like a destination — it felt like access. A way in.










In the Galápagos, the rules are simple — and enforced.





You don’t wander.
You don’t touch.
You don’t interfere.





Every visitor is accompanied by a licensed naturalist. The ecosystem is protected with an almost reverent discipline, and because of that, the animals remain exactly as they were meant to be — wild, undisturbed, and completely indifferent to human presence.





And that indifference is what makes the experience so extraordinary.










We explored the islands twice a day for a week — one excursion in the morning, one in the afternoon.





Each outing felt like stepping into a different world.





One moment you’re walking along a rocky path beside marine iguanas, the next you’re standing quietly while a sea lion pup studies you with curious, unguarded eyes. Birds nest at your feet. Crabs scatter across volcanic rock. Life unfolds all around you, uninterrupted.





There is no performance.
No reaction.
No need for you at all.










I wasn’t prepared for how close everything would be.





Not just physically — although that alone was surreal — but something deeper.





The blue-footed boobies walked past like we didn’t exist.
A sea lion blinked slowly, unimpressed by my camera hovering inches away.
Marine iguanas gathered in clusters, ancient and unmoved.





It wasn’t that they trusted us.
It was that they had never learned not to.










There was one moment that stayed with me — simple, unexpected, and oddly meaningful.





We stopped at what they call the “post office” on Floreana Island.





Not a building.
Not a mailbox.





Just a weathered barrel surrounded by driftwood signs from travelers who had passed through before us.





We were each given a postcard and asked to write a message to ourselves — name and home address included.





Then came the part that made it unforgettable.





We were told to sort through the stack of postcards left behind… find one addressed to someone who lived near us… and take it home to deliver.





No stamps.
No system.
Just trust.





My husband’s postcard arrived first — hand-delivered by someone we now refer to only as “Blood Bank Bob.”





Mine showed up later, quietly, like it had always belonged there.





And somehow, it meant more than anything sent the traditional way ever could.















At the time, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.





The marine iguanas looked almost prehistoric — dark and unmoving against the volcanic rock — until you noticed the color. Not subtle… but vivid. Reds and greens woven through their scales like something alive beneath the surface.





Later, I learned we had arrived just as the breeding season was beginning.





Even here, in a place that feels untouched by time, there are rhythms quietly unfolding — whether you recognize them or not.















And then there were the albatross.





Before the cliffs… before the flight… there was something quieter.





Pairs stood facing each other, calling, moving in sync — a kind of ritual that felt both ancient and deliberate. There was no audience. No urgency. Just connection.





They bond for life.





We watched as they moved through these small, repeated gestures, as if reinforcing something already understood.





And then, later, at the edge of the cliffs, they gathered again — this time facing the wind.





One by one, they stepped forward.





A pause.
A shift.





And then — without hesitation — they launched into the air.















Even in the harbor, nothing really changed.





The sea lions claimed boats like they owned them, lounging without concern, completely indifferent to the activity around them.





There was no boundary between wild and human life — just a quiet understanding of who truly belonged.















Not everything in the Galápagos lives in the light.





Deep inside the lava tubes, where the air cools and the world goes quiet, we found an owl — perfectly still, perfectly aware.





It didn’t move.
It didn’t flinch.





It simply watched us… as if we were the ones out of place.










The Moment That Stayed





It was an instinctive click.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t frame it. I didn’t ask.
I just reacted.





The moment that stayed with me wasn’t a landscape or a sea lion or a postcard view.





It was a woman at a hillside market, working with her child tied to her back.





She moved with a rhythm that belonged entirely to her life — unhurried, unposed, untouched by the presence of a stranger with a camera.





No one looked at me.
No one performed.





I was invisible.





And somehow, that’s what made it matter.





It wasn’t a moment created for me.
It was a glimpse of something real — offered without intention — and it stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect.