Whenever Carla and I arrive in a new city, we’re drawn to its museums, ancient ruins, and magnificent buildings. I love seeing what people have created and preserved through the centuries. But the longer we travel, the more convinced I become that the most revealing museum in any city has no walls. It’s out on the streets, where everyday life unfolds and the people who live there continue adding their own stories to its history.

The Wonder of Wandering has a new home! We’ve completely updated our website to make it easier to navigate, easier to explore, and hopefully even more enjoyable to use. It’s a better way for us to share our stories from the road, along with our photos and videos from the places we’ve been. We hope you’ll stop by, wander around a bit, and see what catches your eye. And while you’re there, we’d love for you to subscribe to the blog so you’ll know whenever there’s something new

I’ve spent more hours than I could count sitting beside rivers, standing along shorelines, or looking out at the sea from an old stone wall somewhere. I’m usually taking photographs, of course. No surprise there. Eventually, though, I put the phone down and simply watch, because there’s a great deal happening in water even when it appears to be doing almost nothing.

It’s one of the stranger and more wonderful things about being a traveler. We stand in line to see cracked columns, broken walls, roofless temples, and stones that have spent thousands of years being worked over by wind, rain, war, and neglect. Then we photograph what remains from every possible angle and try to imagine the people who once moved through those places - what they believed, who they loved, and what kept them awake at night.

When I’m back in the States, I’m on a different kind of journey, and my grandchildren are such a big part of it. If I’m wise, I pay close attention to what they bring into my life, because I keep realizing that they touch something in me I don’t want to lose.

When you walk, the world has time to show itself. There’s the light on a building, the feel of a street, the little corner where people gather, or the old man taking his morning walk. You hear bits of conversation and catch the smell of coffee, fresh bread, or the sea if you’re lucky. None of this makes the news, but it does make the day feel more human.

After returning from our recent six-month journey, I’ve been feeling so much gratitude for this life Carla and I are able to live. I wanted to share some of that with you in the best way I know how. Thank you for taking the time to read this little tribute of thanks.

Carla and I will wrap up this chapter of our travels tomorrow, when we leave Chania, Greece, and begin our journey back to the States. We’ll stop in London for the weekend to see Carla’s sister, Eileen, and then we’ll head home for the summer. This segment of our travels began on December 8th in Turkey. From there, we made our way to Sicily, Montenegro, Croatia, and finally Greece. It has been a beautiful six months.

Imagine if someone you encountered today felt a little better because of something you said. Maybe they smile on the way home because of you. Maybe, later in the day, they remember your voice, not because you said something grand or profound, but because you noticed something in them. You noticed their effort. You noticed their kindness. You noticed the simple fact that they were trying. And for someone who needed to hear it, that can mean more than we know.

One of my greatest joys is photographing the places we visit. That probably comes as no surprise to those of you who have followed Carla and me as we have wandered over these past four years. I have been anything but shy about sharing my photos on Facebook, Instagram, and here on the blog, and I love this way of sharing our travels with others.

Remember that old word from the 1960s . . . vibes? Well, the more Carla and I travel, the more I have come to believe that vibe of a place may be one of the most important parts of whether or not we enjoy being there. Maybe even the most important part.

I write a lot about our travels and how they affect us. For me, sharing our journey is about more than simply telling people where Carla and I are or what we happen to be doing. My hope is that something in it may resonate with you. Maybe it opens you to a place you had never thought of visiting before. Maybe it opens you to a different way of seeing your life. Or maybe it simply puts words to something you have already been feeling and, in that way, offers a little comfort o

Even as Carla and I travel through Europe, we remain very aware of the pain, division, and deep unease so present in the world right now. And sadly, so much of it seems to be coming from our home country, the United States. We do not look away from that, and we do not pretend it is not happening. It saddens us deeply. But travel has also shown us something else, just as clearly: how much beauty, kindness, tenderness, and love are still happening around us every single day.

Every evening, as the light softened and the day slowly gave way to night, people in Zadar, Croatia, gathered at the end of the promenade to watch the sun go down, accompanied by the haunting songs of the famous Sea Organ and the glowing light show of the Greeting to the Sun installation. They take their gorgeous sunsets seriously in Zadar, and that alone makes the town worth visiting.

In early April, Carla and I had planned to spend three weeks in Turkey, with time in Istanbul, Cappadocia, and the coastal town of Alaçatı. It was one of the parts of this journey we were most excited about. Turkey offers so much history, culture, and beauty, and we were eager to experience more of it. But over the past several days, we made the difficult decision to cancel that part of our trip. The reason is the war involving the United States, Israel, and Iran.

Both Carla and I love art. Wherever we travel, one of the first things we look for is the local art scene. We’re drawn to places where creativity is alive and visible, and where artists are part of the fabric of daily life. Art tells the story of a place in ways no guidebook or history book ever could. It carries emotion, memory, struggle, and beauty all at once. It shows you not just what happened, but how it felt.

Being abroad, especially here in Europe, has given me a different lens through which to see American politics. Distance has a way of doing that. It brings both discomfort and clarity. When you step outside your own country and begin to see it through the eyes of others, especially those not caught up in its daily drama, the noise begins to fall away. Certain truths come into focus, and once seen, they are hard to ignore.

Over time, travel has taught me that beauty isn’t reserved for spectacular scenes. It doesn’t show up only in postcard moments or perfect views. I notice it just as often in worn streets, imperfect buildings, the way light hits a wall, or in small, ordinary moments I once would have hurried past. Travel doesn’t just show us beautiful places. It teaches us how to recognize beauty wherever we find ourselves. Once that happens, the way we see begins to change, and it doesn’t

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 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.