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.