Beyond the Map

Women Who Leave a Trace

1 Comment / / June 3, 2026

A personal archive of presence and persistence

Since we’ve lived in Valencia and started traveling more consistently, I’ve been collecting something I don’t really have a name for — women I encounter, read about, or remember long after I’ve left a place behind. Over time, I’ve realized I’ve been building a quiet archive of presence and of persistence – women who make an impression and leave a trace. I call it my wall.

It’s in my room — part studio, part office — and displays posters, postcards, and sometimes printed photographs of women I’ve encountered while traveling. Some are historical figures I’ve learned about in museums. Some are artists, activists, or writers I’ve come across in exhibitions or conversations. And some are unnamed entirely, preserved only in fragments of ancient imagery.

Among them is Theodora, whom I encountered in Ravenna, Italy, standing in front of the extraordinary Byzantine mosaics. In those golden, still figures — imperial, severe, and luminous — she felt less like a distant historical figure and more like someone whose influence had been encoded into the walls themselves. Empress of the Byzantine Empire from 527–548 CE, she is remembered not only for political power but for legal reforms that expanded protections for women, including making rape punishable by death and strengthening women’s rights to own and inherit property.

Then there is Letizia Battaglia, whose image I found in Palermo, Sicily, on a wall honoring those who resisted the Mafia. Seeing her honored in a public tribute — among others who had fought for truth and accountability — made an impression instantly. Her life’s work as a photojournalist documented both everyday Sicilian life and the violence of the Mafia with an unflinching clarity that refused to turn away.

Some figures on the wall are not identifiable at all. There is an image from ancient Athens of a woman holding a book and a stylus, which I discovered at the Acropolis Museum. No name survives, but the symbolism is unmistakable: a woman aligned with writing, thought, and authorship in a world where such roles were rarely preserved in the historical record. She remains on my wall precisely because she is unknowable.

There are also the Minoan women — the figures known as the Ladies in Blue and The Parisienne — whom I first encountered in the frescoes displayed at Knossos on Crete. Dating to around 1600 BCE, they predate everything else in the archive, yet they don’t feel ancient in the way that word usually implies distance. They are animated and richly ornamented — women who appear central to whatever world they inhabited, not peripheral to it. Minoan civilization remains only partially understood; its script has never been fully deciphered, and scholars still debate the social roles these figures represent. But the frescoes themselves are unambiguous in one sense: these women were worth painting large, in color, with attention.

Sarah Bernhardt, whose image I encountered through the Art Nouveau paintings of Alphonse Mucha while visiting his museum in Prague, holds a place on my wall. In Mucha’s work, she appears almost mythic — elevated, stylized, iconic — but her real life was even more compelling. A celebrated French stage actress, she challenged gender norms of her time and used her fame to advocate for women’s rights and support other women artists.

I discovered Berthe Morisot at the Musée Marmottan Monet in Paris when we went to see a special exhibit of Eugene Boudìn’s works. The first woman Impressionist, she worked alongside artists like Monet, Renoir, Degas and Pissaro. Unlike her male peers, Berthe worked within strict social limits placed on women in the 19th century. She couldn’t freely visit cafés, studios, or public nightlife scenes to paint. While she built a professional career in a male-dominated art world, she sold relatively few works in her lifetime, and her art is little represented in museums. For me, she is a model for a quiet but powerful challenge to gender norms.

These women, though separated by time and circumstance, are connected by a shared spirit of resistance and imagination.

On my recent trip to Uzbekistan, I added another. I was traveling in Tashkent with the San Diego Diplomacy Council when we met Dinara Dultaeva. She spoke to our group in a way that felt both grounded and expansive — less a speech and more like sharing something she had been building for decades.

Dinara is the founder of her own publishing and media company. Over the years, her work has included more than 50 magazine editions promoting Uzbekistan as a place to live, travel, and understand. She has also published books about the country, including a coffee table volume titled 10 Reasons to Visit Uzbekistan, which I was able to purchase while in Tashkent — filled with photographs of deserts, cities, mountains, and everyday life.

What makes her work particularly striking is not only its content, but its timing. She began building her company roughly 20 years ago — around 2006 — fifteen years after independence, in a country still negotiating its identity, and in a cultural context where professional space for women is just emerging. What stayed with me was not only the scale of what she built, but the clarity of her vision. Her work is not passive documentation — it is active storytelling. It participates in how Uzbekistan is seen, imagined, and remembered by others.

Rome offered a different kind of encounter — one shaped more by what was missing than what remained. On a recent visit, as Ed described in his recent post, we spent hours with an archaeologist walking through ancient Rome. As I listened to his stories I was struck as much by what was missing as by what remained. Women surfaced occasionally in the stories, and more than once our guide reminded us that this was a deeply patriarchal society — one where women’s lives were often recorded through the perspectives of men and shaped by the demands of  power and survival.

We visited Livia’s garden room; a space often associated with Livia Drusilla, wife of Augustus, the first emperor of Rome. The interpretation of her influence is still debated — whether she was a political strategist, a stabilizing force, or simply a woman whose proximity to power defined how history remembers her. Livia’s record is filtered through the men around her — and something about that framing kept her off the wall.

Instead, what I carried forward from Rome was something else. While browsing in a bookstore (a favorite pastime), I found myself drawn to A History of the Roman Empire in 21 Women by Emma Southon — an irreverent, sharp, and intentionally unsanctified retelling of Roman history through the women who are often sidelined or flattened in its telling. It is witty in a way that feels corrective, refusing to treat history as neutral or complete. I’ve only just started it, but I already find myself wondering which women will emerge from its pages and whether some of them will eventually find their way onto my wall.

Maybe that is the next layer of this archive — not only the women I meet in places, but the ones I meet through someone else’s insistence on seeing differently. Because whether it is Theodora in Ravenna’s mosaics, Letizia Battaglia in Palermo’s memorial walls, Sarah Bernhardt in Mucha’s Prague, an unnamed woman in Athens holding a book and pen, the intriguing Minoan women, or the voices reconstructed in Southon’s Rome — the thread is the same. A persistence of presence across time, even when recognition is uneven or incomplete.

What I’ve been practicing, I think, is a kind of attention — noticing who is building, who is preserving, who is resisting invisibility. My wall is not finished. I don’t think it ever will be. But it keeps growing — one encounter, one image, one story at a time.

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Choosing the We

6 Comments / / May 6, 2026

When Ed and I are walking through a new city, he’s always the navigator. I’ve stopped even pulling out my phone. I just wait quietly while he figures out where we’re going. It’s a small thing—who holds the phone, who decides which way to turn. Nobody writes tragedies about navigation. But smallness is exactly what gives it power. The small surrenders are where disappearing happens.

Ed isn’t the villain here. He’s genuinely better at navigation than I am, and he loves taking care of me. Still, I’ve noticed something small in that dynamic: one tiny piece of myself I’ve quietly put away. I was thinking about this as I prepared for a week in Uzbekistan with friends. Ed would stay in Valencia. As the trip approached, I felt anxious about being away from him—but also excited at the thought of being on my own.

Ed and I spent years apart earlier in our marriage because of our careers. But since retiring and moving to Spain three years ago, we’ve rarely been apart. We travel constantly together. Sometimes it feels like we’re joined at the hip. Occasionally I wonder if I’ve lost some sense of my own agency in the world.

Those feelings weren’t entirely new. During Covid we sheltered in place in our home on the northern California coast. After the pandemic I retired rather than returning to my career. Retirement brought freedom, but it also removed a structure where agency had been built into my days. My professional life had required independence: decisions, expertise, movement through the world on my own terms.

My recent trip to Uzbekistan offered a contrast. I was somewhere genuinely foreign and remarkable, traveling with friends but moving through the world on my own terms. The difference was simple but revealing – who I am when Ed is in the room, and who I am when he isn’t. The strange truth was that I missed him – and felt more like myself.

Coupledom has a gravity.

You orient toward each other. You narrate experiences in real time. You make small accommodations constantly, without noticing. Then suddenly you’re alone in a bazaar in Uzbekistan and something quietly clicks back on.

Uzbekistan wasn’t exactly a turning point. It was more a moment of clarity. One small moment captured it. In Tashkent, I realized I’d occasionally need a taxi. When we travel together, Ed always handles that. But this time I simply searched for the best taxi app, downloaded one, entered my credit card, and started booking rides for myself and my friend. Nothing dramatic. Just competence returning quietly.

For a week I was also something else: simply Bonnie.

The woman who lives in Spain. The expat. The one who made the unconventional choice. Among people who didn’t know my marriage or my routines, I was seen fresh. Sometimes it takes strangers to remind you who you are.

And yet I missed Ed the entire time. We are good travel companions. We genuinely enjoy discovering places together. I’m not writing a manifesto for solo travel or independence. What I’m holding is something more complicated: I can miss him deeply, love traveling with him, and still need to remember who I am when he isn’t there.

After Uzbekistan I met Ed in Istanbul. He had spent a few days there alone before I arrived. Interestingly, he confessed the same anxiety about being by himself that I had felt before leaving for Tashkent. Life had given us the same experience from opposite sides: a few days navigating unfamiliar cities alone. Nothing dramatic—just remembering ourselves. When we reunited, it felt like two people meeting again who had each spent a little time alone inside their own lives.

Agency, I’ve realized, isn’t the same as independence. The tour reminded me of that too — a week of group travel, however wonderful the people, made me appreciate how naturally Ed and I move through the world together. We set our own pace. We’re a good team. And that’s what this feels like now — not habit, not default, but a choice. Choosing the We.

The trip gave me useful information. I rediscovered I can move through the world independently. But I also discovered that traveling together—just the two of us, at our own pace—is genuinely my preferred way of being in the world.

So, was I making a big deal out of nothing? I don’t think so. The questions were real, and it was worth looking closely at them. Uzbekistan reminded me that I can move through the world on my own. The tour reminded me that I enjoy moving through it with Ed.

The country of Uzbekistan carries an interesting echo of that theme. Uzbeks are reclaiming parts of their pre-Soviet identity, deciding what to carry forward and what to leave behind. Watching that process felt oddly familiar. A person can do something similar: acknowledge where you’ve come from while still finding your way forward.

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The Art of Keeping In Touch

2 Comments / / March 31, 2026

“It is the correspondence that is her manner of living.”

“Imagine all that you have said to another, all the commentary you have exchanged with friends over drinks, over the phone with colleagues and distant relatives — really, the sum of this interpersonal communication is the substance of your life. Relationships being, as we know by now in our old ages, the meat of our lives. But all of that is gone. Vanished! And one day, you yourself will be gone.”

Virginia Evans, The Correspondent

When I read that first line, I stopped. It wasn’t describing me exactly — but it was pointing at something I recognize. We live in Valencia, Spain. Our sons, their families, and our grandchildren live in the United States. We are separated by an ocean and, on most days, by several time zones. So, one of the primary ways I experience being their mother and grandmother — the day-to-day texture of those relationships — is through correspondence.


That word, “correspondence,” carries the scent of another era. I think of fountain pens, wax seals, letters crossing the Atlantic by ship. Of course, my correspondence looks nothing like that. It is a text message on a Tuesday morning. A photo sent to a digital frame on the other side of the world. A FaceTime call where a grandchild drifts in and out of the conversation as they play. A blog post. A typed letter for a birthday. A handwritten thank-you note, because some things still deserve the ceremony of pen and paper.


Each form does something different. A text is immediate, it says: “I’m thinking of you. Right now.” The blog is slower, more considered; it’s where I try to articulate what my life in Spain and our travels feel like, what I notice, what surprises me. FaceTime is something else again — not quite a visit, but close enough that I can watch an expression change, catch a mood, be present for a small moment in a way that a message can’t replicate. The digital frame we recently bought for our grandchildren is, I think, another level of intimacy. Ed and I send them videos and photographs of our daily life: a market stall, laundry hanging from balconies, a huge pan of paella in a restaurant window, a street musician in the plaza – and of our travels. It’s a small window through which they see where their grandparents are. Correspondence is not what we do instead of being with them. Ed and I visit the States at least twice a year. We keep a home in the small Pennsylvania town where our grandchildren live, and we spend unhurried weeks there — the kind of time that allows for ordinary life together.


And every January, we manage something I treasure deeply: a family gathering built around a rare alignment of our three sons’ very different schedules. One is a college professor, on semester break. One owns a restaurant, which he closes for a week or so after the holiday rush. The third works in hospitality, where January is reliably slow. For a few days, the calendars open at the same time, and we are all in the same place.


Those weeks and that gathering are my bedrock. But they are not the whole of the relationship — and this is where Evans’s first line rings true for me. What correspondence does is keep the connection warm between those times. It means that when we walk through the door in Pennsylvania, we haven’t drifted. The grandchildren already know what we’ve been up to. They’ve watched our videos and seen the photos on the frame. We don’t have to spend the first days becoming reacquainted. We can simply pick up where we left off, because we never quite put it down. Still, I won’t pretend it’s effortless.


Evans puts it more starkly in that second passage: she asks us to imagine all we have said to another — the conversations over drinks, the phone calls with distant relatives, the messages typed quickly into a phone — and observes that the sum of all that communication is the substance of a life. Relationships are the meat of our lives. And then she delivers the blow: all of it vanishes. And one day, so do we. That’s the stakes, really. Which is why correspondence requires something that doesn’t come automatically: intention. There are weeks when time slips by and I realize I’ve been quiet for too long. There are time zones to navigate, days when everyone is tired, moments when reaching for the phone feels like one thing too many at the end of a full day. But you must decide, again, and again, that the connection matters enough to reach for it. Because the alternative — letting it quietly thin — is its own kind of loss, one that happens so gradually you might not notice until it’s too late.


But when I do reach — when I send the photo, write the letter, make the call — something is returned. Not always immediately, not always in kind. But the relationship stays warm. My grandchildren are growing up with a sense, however partial, of who their grandmother is and how she lives. And I am watching them grow in ways I would otherwise only hear about secondhand.


It is the correspondence that is her manner of living. I understand that now. It isn’t a workaround or a consolation. For those of us who live far from the people we love most, it is one of the primary ways we inhabit those relationships — a daily practice of reaching across distance to say: “I am here. You are not forgotten.” The ocean that separates us does not have to mean silence. It never has.

Author’s Note

This essay grew out of reading Virginia Evans’s debut novel The Correspondent with my book club in Valencia — a wonderful group of women from around the world, all English-speaking, who meet monthly to read and discuss, with tapas and wine always included. The novel sparked thoughts about distance, family, and connection that I couldn’t quite let go of.

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What endures

3 Comments / / March 13, 2026

This post is a departure from our usual travel writing — a more personal reflection shaped by the journey.

Spending time with people in their late 80s and 90s has a way of clarifying things. It strips away abstractions about aging and replaces them with something far more concrete: a glimpse of one’s own probable future.

Eager to escape the snow and ice of western Pennsylvania, we flew to Northern California. Not surprisingly, an ambitious itinerary awaited our three days in California, with plans to rest and reflect in Santa Fe afterward. Winter, however, had other ideas.

We arrived in Sacramento after midnight on Tuesday, bleary-eyed but happy to be there. By noon Wednesday, still feeling the effects of jet lag, we met our good friends and travel companions, John and Debby, for lunch in Auburn. It was lovely. We caught up on family and life and talked excitedly about a planned meetup later this year in Egypt — a reminder that the future still holds adventures worth anticipating.

The immediate occasion for the trip was the 90th birthday of Ed’s mother, Vera. But it quickly became clear that aging itself would be a central theme. After celebrating Vera, we spent time with relatives Nayan and Jo. Nayan will turn 95 this spring and has slowed considerably. Being with three nonagenarians and one octogenarian offered a sobering glimpse into a possible future — assuming I’m fortunate enough to reach my own 90s. It’s one thing to think abstractly about aging; it’s another to sit across the table from it.

We brought along Outlive by Peter Attia, knowing we’d have long stretches of time in the car. The book explores how to extend not just lifespan, but healthspan — the years we live well. At 71, I may be late to the game but reading Attia’s work alongside these lived examples made the message feel immediate and personal. While it was reassuring to learn that my recent efforts around exercise and weight are aligned with current research, it also became clear that I need to be far more intentional going forward. There is still time — but not time to be casual.

Change appeared in other ways as well. A major winter storm disrupted our plans to fly to Santa Fe, forcing a last-minute Plan B. It had been five years since we sold our property on the Mendocino Coast, and we hadn’t returned since. The detour felt like an invitation to revisit the past — or perhaps to test the idea that some memories are better preserved than revisited.

Our time on the coast and in the Anderson Valley was bittersweet. The natural beauty that first drew us there remains, but the forests have suffered. During our final years living there, we had already begun cutting down dying trees each year. Seeing how many more had succumbed to drought and invasive beetles in the years since was heartbreaking. At the same time, I was struck by how little else had changed. There was a stillness, a lack of vibrancy, that felt palpable.

And yet, amid loss, there were bright spots — reminders that community and connection endure even as landscapes and circumstances change. I spent time with colleagues and friends from the early days of the Mendonoma Health Alliance (MHA), now nearing its tenth anniversary. Remembering the moment we received funding to launch a rural health network — and seeing what the organization has become — reinforced a belief I hold deeply: meaningful work outlasts individual chapters. Under strong leadership and sustained commitment, MHA continues to make a real difference in access to healthcare along this remarkable stretch of coast.

At moments like this — and especially as we watch communities such as Minneapolis struggle through another season of grief and reckoning — the importance of connection, shared responsibility, and showing up for one another feels not abstract, but essential.

Another deeply meaningful visit was with my dear friend Cristi, whom I met years ago while volunteering as a mentor at the Women’s Empowerment Center in Sacramento. At the time, Cristi was homeless and working to rebuild her life after years of substance abuse. What was meant to be a short mentoring commitment grew into a friendship I treasure. Over burgers and fries, Cristi shared her life with hard-earned pride. Today, Cristi is a recovery counselor, grandmother, and homeowner. She often says that my belief in her made the difference. Perhaps. But my view is simpler and more humbling: she did the hard work.

Whether through my nursing career, community projects, or mentoring, much of my life has been about creating spaces for others to thrive — and seeing those lives flourish has been the most enduring reward. Legacy, I realize, is not measured in accolades or recognition, but in the lives we touch and the connections we sustain along the way.

In San Francisco, with only a few hours to spare, we revisited two favorite spots: the Ferry Building for oysters and a glass of Albariño, and Kokkari for a perfect Greek meal. Though the city has changed since my time living there in the 2000s, these familiar places allowed me to hold onto cherished memories. Maybe sometimes it’s enough to revisit a few familiar places, and leave the rest undisturbed.

Eventually, we were able to resume our plans to visit Santa Fe, where our reflections on longevity continued and the next chapters of Outlive awaited. It felt fitting to be thinking about endurance, adaptation, and renewal in the oldest capital city in the United States — a place shaped by centuries of change and continuity.

Aging reveals what endures — in our bodies, our landscapes, and our relationships. The task, it seems, is not to resist change, but to recognize what is worth carrying forward. As the years narrow their margins, questions of longevity naturally give way to questions of legacy — how our choices, relationships, and work ripple outward long after we move on.

Author’s Note

Written during a winter journey west, this essay reflects on aging, memory, and the sustaining power of community — themes sharpened by personal milestones and broader social unrest.

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Exactly Where We Are

1 Comment / / March 14, 2026

Winter Insists

As I sat down to start writing this post, the weather forecast announced, “Expect snow in the next hour.” A curious thing to predict when snow had been falling steadily all day, and then blown almost sideways. Ed had shoveled the driveway first thing in the morning so we could run a necessary errand. Before long, he was back out there again, repeating the ritual. Winter has a way of insisting on our participation. And if it’s not already clear – no, we’re not in Valencia!

“Winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.”

Sinclair Lewis

A Blizzard of Fun

We arrived in New Wilmington on December 4, and the weeks since have been a blizzard – pun fully intended – of activity. It’s a busy season for Matt and Maggie at The Tavern, and we’re grateful to help where we can. Mostly, that means time with the kiddos: playing, reading, watching movies, making crafts (and cookies!). It feels like the best kind of work.

Of course, the holidays were woven in as well, along with celebrating Merr’s seventh birthday. In the midst of all that, a visit to Atlanta to see Mark and Shannon offered a welcome pause—time just for grown-ups. We lingered over great meals and spent unhurried hours wandering through bookstores together, a simple pleasure and a delight.

All Under One Roof

After the holidays, the Noble family – all twelve of us – gathered for a week in the Poconos. We rented a wonderfully oversized house with plenty of bedrooms and bathrooms, a generous kitchen, and a few extra comforts that quickly became favorites. The sauna and hot tub were well used, but the game room was where we kept finding one another. Evenings unfolded slowly – conversation, billiards, movie nights, video games, puzzles, and late night poker games. And always, the quiet comfort of knowing we were all under the same roof.

“The best moments in life are the ones you don’t plan.”

John Lennon

The Mountain was Kind

Days were for skiing. With several first-timers and others returning after a long break, I held my breath each morning as they headed out – imagining the sprains, bumps, and breaks that might result. Completely unnecessary, it turns out. The mountain was kind. Nearly everyone had a wonderful time. Confidence grew, joy followed. Shannon gave it her best before deciding that skiing wasn’t her thing. Knowing when to step away felt like its own kind of success. Ed and I chose not to ski this time. I’m content avoiding the cold, happy to watch from the sidelines. Ed, though, admitted to a hint of regret as the week came to an end.

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

Helen Keller

Different Landscape, Same Heart

Last January, we gathered in Valencia, warm and sunlit. This January looked very different – layers of clothing, early sunsets, snow piled high. Still, the heart of it was the same: time together, shared meals, familiar stories, and new memories layered gently on top of old ones. As we imagine where next January might take us, one thing feels certain: we’ll be hoping for warmth, in every sense of the word.

As I was getting ready to publish this post, the world outside was white and the thermometer hovered at one degree. We were preparing to head west—California first, to visit family and friends, with a planned stop in Santa Fe on our way back to New Wilmington—hoping winter might loosen its grip, at least geographically. But no such luck. A major storm co-opted our Santa Fe plans, and after our visits with loved ones, we’ll instead spend a couple of days on our beloved Mendocino Coast.

Winter, it seems, has its own ideas. And in yielding to them, the lesson feels quietly familiar: nothing more is required of us than to be fully where we are.

“Nothing is worth more than this day.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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Islands on My Mind

3 Comments / / May 5, 2026

My last post about our trek to Madeira got me thinking. About islands. About why they call to us the way they do. Islands somehow manage to feel adventurous and peaceful at the same time. They are remote yet intimate. They invite both exploration and stillness. A speck on the map becomes, for a while, an entire world.

“When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.“

John Muir

At Home in California

Santa Catalina was the first island we visited together and I’m thinking it was sometime in the 1970s. And I know we’ve been to Coronado Island a time or two. There doesn’t seem to be any photographic evidence of these island adventures and while the details have softened with time, the feelings have not. Sunlight on water, the sense of being just far enough from the mainland to feel removed from the ordinary—those impressions remain. Years later, we returned to Catalina with our children. I remember wonder, and the shared experience of discovering something beautiful together.

Westward Bound

Hawaii followed, and with it a dreamscape of color and motion—palm trees swaying in warm breezes, surf rolling in endless rhythms, bright hibiscus against deep blue skies. There is an ease to island life there that seeps into your bones. Days feel lighter. Smiles come quicker. It is impossible not to feel changed by that kind of natural generosity.

North, East and South

The islands of Puget Sound offered a different beauty—quieter, softer, wrapped in mist and evergreen. The water, the skies, and the evergreen-covered hills rising out of the sea soothe the soul. There’s a softness to life there that still lingers in my mind.

On Deer Isle, Maine, autumn had arrived in full glory. Lobster boats in chilly harbors, turning leaves along narrow roads, crisp air filled with salt and wood smoke—it all felt like stepping into a painting. It was on this trip as naive Californians we discovered that most businesses were closed for the season already in early September. Who knew? And this is where we tasted our first lobster roll.

Cozumel, on the other hand, dazzled with warmth and motion—turquoise water, coral reefs alive with color, sunlight dancing on sand, exotic jungle, and ancient ruins. It was a place of laughter and easy choices: swim or snorkel, shade or sun. The gift there was joy, pure and uncomplicated.

Land of the Gaels

Iona appeared like a whisper—gentle light, ancient stone, and rolling green hills. Off the western coast of Scotland, it’s just a short ferry ride from Oban to a place steeped in history as a center of early Christianity, with its monastery established in 563 AD. Iona has a special kind of quiet beauty.  It is the kind of place that stays with you long after you leave.

Inisheer (Inis Oír), in Ireland’s Aran Islands, showed me the meaning of rugged living — stone walls, wind-whipped fields, and a simple, harsh beauty. Every cottage, path, and pasture felt shaped by generations of weather and will. When I ordered our lunch at a tiny café, I was greeted by a young woman with an unmistakable Minnesota accent  – she had fallen in love with an Irishman from Inisheer and never looked back.

On Islay, the southernmost island of Scotland’s Hebrides, the rolling hills cut through with dark peat bogs, low stone fences, and a wild, salty wind are unforgettable. Also unforgettable is the smoky single malt whiskey that still transports me back with every sip. Leaving Islay became one of our all-time adventures as we boarded a twelve-person inflatable boat to cross the North Sea just ahead of an approaching storm.

Islas de Espaňa

Moving to Spain opened a whole new chapter of island wanderings. It took us almost no time to realize that the Canary Islands are just four hours from Valencia — a simple hop and suddenly you’re somewhere else entirely. Our first stop, Lanzarote, felt like arriving on the moon: black volcanic rock stretching for miles, vineyards cradled in ash, mountains shaped by fire, and surreal landscapes.

Gran Canaria dazzled us with dramatic cliffs and lush pockets of green. What surprised us most was the incredible biodiversity – pine forests, rolling desert-like sand dunes, an extensive cacti garden, and golden sandy beaches all on a single island.

Mallorca welcomed us with golden Mediterranean light, gothic stone cathedral rising from the sea, and evenings that seemed made for lingering. Olive groves, limestone cliffs, shimmering water, and the simple genius of Joan Miró all coexist effortlessly here. Mallorca is an island of elegance and warmth, where art, landscape, and daily life blend seamlessly.

The Island of the Sun

Sicily doesn’t whisper its beauty—it sings it, boldly. The contrast is intoxicating – lively, layered Palermo with wonderful markets and an edgy energy, and then the elegance of Taormina perched above the sea with ancient ruins and sweeping views. In the distance, Mount Etna smolders like a watchful god, reminding you that this island is shaped as much by fire as by water. The way history, coastline, and raw nature swirl together makes you want to stay longer than you planned.

Incomparable Greece

And then there’s Greece – the grand collection that provides a tapestry of culture, myth and color. Blue-domed villages, charming harbors, ancient stories, and stunning beaches make for a particular kind of magic. The water is so clear it hardly seems real and each island we visited seemed to have its own shade of blue. The magic there is timeless.

From wind-lashed cliffs to sunlit coves, from storm crossings to silent harbors, each island has tested us and rewarded us in its own way. Yet the gift has always been the same: the freedom to wander, the invitation to notice, and the quiet nudge to dream again. The islands, endlessly patient, continue to call.

“How I wish that somewhere there existed an island for those who are wise and of good will.”

Albert Einsten

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THE BOOK REVIEW

7 Comments / / March 14, 2026

READING TIME

One of the pleasures of retirement is to allow myself time to read with a minimum amount of guilt for not doing something productive. I’m currently reading Zadie Smith’s newest novel “The Fraud”. She’s a writer I have been enraptured by from the moment I picked up her earliest work. Just gob smacked. How to explain such talent? Maturity? Depth? I think she was about 22 years old at the time. As I am a perfectionist – with all the inherent tendencies to procrastinate and equivocate and generally avoid attempting projects that risk coming up short of my own standards – reading Smith obliterated any aspirational shreds I might have been harboring around writing fiction myself. I knew at my core I did not have that kind of talent, let alone the soul.

Regarding “The Fraud”, I recently read a lengthy essay in the London Review of Books commenting on Smith’s intentional inverting of the traditional form of the novel as broad commentary on the fiction of the nineteenth century. And, how she is subverting this and that convention, packing juicy little historical easter eggs into the details for the academics to uncover and pontificate about. Perhaps. And while I can see and appreciate some of this nuance, please. Just read the woman’s prose.

She had arrived at Elm Lodge on the twenty-third of April, 1830. Ever after she marked the day in her heart. No language attended it. No conscious ritual. If asked what the date meant to her she would have spoken the truth and called it St. George’s Day and denied attaching any personal significance to it. But somewhere deeper, past language, it was marked. A cluster of sensations. The climbing rose. Frances in the doorway. That first, unmistakable, impression of her goodness. The feeling of walking down grassy Willesden Lane, early in the morning, plucking wildflowers out of the hedgerows and trying to appreciate them. The happiness of knowing she would turn round and walk back to a house of steamed rags and strung-up rabbits, drying linens and chubby baby ankles, small hands with food on them, the smell of bacon, fruit cakes wrapped in cloth, the swampy whiff of pea soup, and simplest chords of Bach played clumsily but with good humor. All of this warm human sacred business she had almost forgotten existed.

– Zadie Smith, The Fraud, 2023

It sometimes feels that I took too long to finally accept retirement. So much I had nearly forgotten existed.

DRIVING SCHOOL

We are continuing the process of acculturating Valenciano norms. I tend to have a romantic notion about “living as a local” which it is increasingly obvious will always be very limited in reality. It turns out, however, that just navigating the fundamental requirements of Spanish society brings with it a shift in perspective and appreciation for the culture. For example, I’ve embarked on a journey to acquire a Spanish driver’s license. Now as an American, you may wonder how this could be characterized as a journey. How big a deal can it be if you’ve been driving all your life? Ahem.

It turns out the Spanish take awarding the privilege of operating a motor vehicle in their country quite seriously. My status as a safe driver for over 52 years counts for exactly nothing. And, as a resident of Spain for more than six months, neither my U.S. nor international driver’s licenses count for squat. I am required to begin again, from the beginning, like a teenager.

Attending a state regulated driving school is mandatory for all “new” drivers. The format and protocol are the same no matter which school you attend. You must take and pass a state administered written exam. When you have successfully completed the written test, you must take and pass an actual driving test with a state examiner. The proctored, written exam consists of 30 questions. You must score a 90% or better to pass. Each individual exam is randomly generated by a computer from a database of 3,000 questions, so to prepare for the written exam, the first phase of driving school involves answering 3,000 questions. Correctly. No, that’s not a typo. I am in the process of taking 100 practice exams of 30 questions each. And I must go back and correct every error when I have finished. Only when I have successfully completed this phase, will the driving school schedule my first attempt at the state exam. (My driving school is called “El Cid”. I have visions of Charlton and Sophia every time I sit down to work on this thing.)

I’m 10% done with the 3,000 questions.

How this process becomes interesting – and relevant to the cultural aspects I referenced earlier – is the contrast with our expectations in Los Estados Unidos. My first instinct was to say, “well, the Spanish laws and regulations are just far more detailed and comprehensive than in the U.S.” But as I thought about it, I realized that our U.S. laws and regulations are at least as complex, it’s just that we don’t really expect everyone to learn them all. For example, trucks in the U.S. are required to have certain signs and symbols on them that indicate weight, size, contents, etc., but we don’t expect the average driver to know and understand their meaning. (Missed multiple questions on the meaning of a square versus a rectangle symbol.) Perhaps it’s just that I haven’t taken a driving exam for over five decades and today’s new U.S. drivers are subjected to more rigor than I was. (Not really buying this based on my experience on U.S. roads.) So, one conclusion I have reached is that Spanish society simply expects more from its citizens, as in total mastery of their driving laws, not just a passing familiarity.

So far, I’m averaging 4 – 5 errors per exam. Obviously not good enough. Some of the errors can be attributed to the awkward syntax of translated questions. And some, just don’t seem to translate. It turns out, for example that “stopping distance” and “braking distance” are not synonymous, though I cannot for the life of me discern the difference. In other cases, it’s just a different way of thinking. Imagine tossing a cigarette butt out of a car window resulting in points against your driving record. One regulation I would love to see more often in the US is minimum speed rules. I’ve also missed a couple of questions regarding the rules for herding animals along the roadways – a skill I am almost certain to need at some point in life, right? For some strange reason, helmets are not required on bicyclists during “extremely hot weather”. Missed that one.

An on it goes. Just 2,700 to go. It’s all quite humbling.

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WHY SPAIN?

1 Comment / / March 14, 2026

When moving to Spain was in the planning stage, Maggie asked me “Why Spain instead of California?” It was a good question, but my answer was not a good one. I think I said something about the cost of living being less. While that’s true, and an important factor now that we’re approaching Ed’s retirement, there’s much more to say about Spain and about life in Valencia. Reflecting on the experience of living in Valencia for the last three months, these are the things that help me to better answer Maggie’s question.

PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY

We have found Spanish people to be friendly and welcoming. It’s more than just friendly. They are kind and eager to help, even to strangers. Numerous times we’ve witnessed people coming to the aid of someone who has dropped something. This happened to Ed one day when he was coming home with groceries. A novice at pushing a wheeled cart around cobblestone streets, he lost his grip, the cart tipped over, and produce was scattered about the street. A young woman walking toward him rushed over to help him pick things up. We’ve seen people help a mother trying to carry a stroller up a flight of stairs, strangers on the street always willing to help with directions. Spanish people seem to always have time to help one another.

NO ONE IS IN A HURRY

Spaniards seem to take their time, deliberately, to appreciate the world and people around them. At first, this can be frustrating (e.g., while waiting in line, waiting to be served, waiting for a scoop of gelato), but it hasn’t taken long to adjust. I find myself following their example – take a breath, wait patiently for my turn, prioritize relationships over schedules, take time to help others, relax and enjoy each day. Live to enjoy life.

LA SOBRAMESA

It is considered normal for people to talk with family and friends after a meal, often for hours. If you reserve a table for dinner, it’s yours for the evening. The assumption is that you will spend lots of time during and after the meal talking with one another. This is such an ingrained part of the culture that there’s even a word for it – sobremesa.

LIFE ON THE STREET

People are always out and about. There are plazas, large and small, around every corner. People gather to mingle with neighbors and friends all day and especially in the evening. There are numerous restaurants, cafes, and bars within walking distance of everyone’s home. Socializing outside seems to reinforce an already strong sense of community.

SAFETY

Talking about being out and about, we’re comfortable walking around the city day and night. There’s very little violent crime here and it’s very comfortable to walk about at any hour. Valencia, just like many other cities in Spain, is ranked among the safest cities in Europe.

HAVING FUN

The Spanish love to celebrate. There’s often a celebration going on in the city. Parades, fancy traditional dresses, marching bands, fireworks, and firecrackers are all a frequent occurrence around Valencia. It’s the same everywhere we travel in Spain. There was the Aste Nagusia in Bilbao last August which celebrates Basque culture; the 20th anniversary of a Drag Queen Festival in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria (Canary Islands) in February; the festival of Sant Jordi (Saint George) in Tarragona and throughout Catalonia in April; and the Seville Flamenco Festival last October. It’s all about enjoying life today, together. Carpe diem!  

NOT SO MUCH MACHISMO

If there’s a family walking around the city, it will almost always be the man who is pushing the stroller, holding an infant, and holding hands with young children. Men are openly affectionate, including with one another. Hugs, a kiss on each cheek, and laughter seem to be a part of nearly every greeting. We were sitting in a small sidewalk café one day and a group of young men began to gather at the table next to us. Each time someone new arrived, they all got up and to embrace and kiss the newcomer, sometimes multiple times and with lots of laughter. It turns out it was a group of friends celebrating the marriage engagement of one of them.

A little research on this topic: On Jan. 1, 2021, Spain became the first country in the world to give mothers and fathers the same parental leave: 16 weeks, non-transferable and fully paid. A law passed in 2005 was the start of what one can only call a domestic revolution in the country. Spanish MPs drew up a marriage contract for use in civil ceremonies, which obliges men to share household chores and caring for children and older family members. Failure to do this could affect terms of any divorce settlement, with reduced access rights to children.

DIVERSITY

It may be different in small villages, but in Valencia, it’s a live and let live culture. People here are accepting of people from all walks of life. Just be yourself, relax and enjoy life. We experience that here every day. For example, LGTBQ+ rights are not only practiced in everyday life but also celebrated. Our favorite little sidewalk coffee shop (in the mornings) and bar (at night) is openly gay-friendly (signs on the window) and frequented by all sorts of people – straight, gay, families, elderly.

A little research on this topic: The Spanish equality ministry (yes, that’s for real) recently launched a campaign to combat the beauty ideals that pile pressure on women. The message? Come and enjoy the beach just as you are, however you are.  The campaign slogan is “diverse bodies, free of gender stereotypes, occupying all spaces.”

Changing your gender became legal in 2006. Same-sex marriage has been legal since 2005, making Spain the 3rd country in the world to allow it. Same-sex adoption has been legal in Spain since 2005. Since 1995, prejudice against sexual orientation and gender identity in the housing sector has been illegal. Spain banned hate speech targeting sexual orientation and gender identity in 1995. An act of violence motivated by one’s sexuality and gender identity has been considered a hate crime since 1995. LGBTQ+ discrimination in the workplace due to sexual orientation has been illegal in Spain since 1994. Since 1977, members of the LGBTQ+ community can openly serve in the military.

PRIORITIES

People here just seem happy. I always tell Ed; these Spanish people have a good life. They don’t need a large home (not many have one) or a high-paying job (salaries are low) to enjoy life. Instead, they find happiness in the company of others, enjoying a beer and good conversation as they sit outdoors at a bar or sidewalk café on a sunny day, enjoying sobremesa after dinner, participating in countless celebrations and fiestas. An expat friend went shopping for a new summer wardrobe last year and after buying several items at a small shop in Valencia, the proprietor of the shop closed for the day. Apparently, she was satisfied with the amount of money she’d made that day and opted to spend time with family and friends rather than working for the rest of the day.

FUTURE THINKING

Spain, extremely vulnerable to climate change, is working hard to address this. Most Spaniards see addressing climate change as the biggest challenge facing us today. While this is not something you see every day on the city streets and at the cafes, even a cursory read of the Spanish news and government actions, reveal a strong commitment to sustainability and protecting the environment. These are serious topics in Spain.

A little research on this topic: In Spain, there are over 70 million acres of protected land. That’s nearly a third of Spain’s terrestrial space and about 12% of the marine surface areas. 81% of Spanish people say they are in favor of stricter measures imposing changes on people’s behavior. 89% say they want to replace short-distance flights by fast, low-polluting trains in collaboration with neighboring countries. 70% would welcome a tax on products and services that contribute most to global warming.

It’s not paradise. There are serious problems to address. The 2008 global financial crisis sharply exacerbated both food insecurity and poverty and the impact is still evident today. Also, Spain was no exception to the devastation of the Covid-19 pandemic. There does, however, seem to be a government that is working to address these issues. And people here are happy…happy to be alive, happy to be Spanish.

We are thrilled and honored to be able to live here, to experience Spanish culture, and as always, to learn and to grow. 

P.S. We’re back to the U.S. as of Sunday, May 14 and while it was difficult to leave our new home in Valencia, we’re looking forward to spending time with our stateside family and friends.

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NOT A CHALLENGE

Leave a Comment / / March 14, 2026

It’s no secret that we’re foodies! We’re having such a great time discovering the food scene in Valencia.

EXPAT LIFE DAY #75

Previously, I’ve shared some of the challenges of expat life in Valencia – buying peanut butter, opening a bank account, acquiring a Spanish phone number, buying bed sheets, and (of course!) communicating in Spanish. This time, I’d like to share one aspect of expat life in Valencia that has not been the least bit challenging. Let’s talk about food, specifically eating out. I’ve read that there are 6000 restaurants in Valencia. Let’s say a quarter of them meet our standard of “good to really good food.” If we eat out 10 times a week (I know that sounds like a lot, but to be clear, this includes breakfast, lunch, and dinner), we’d be able to try all 1500 or so eateries in about 6 months. To do so, we’d need to remain in Valencia that entire time and have no repeats. I’ll admit, that might be a bit of a challenge, even for us. But don’t worry, we’re off to a good start!

ETHNIC FOOD!

In addition to lots of Spanish food (more on that next time), we’ve sampled a few of the many ethnic restaurants in Valencia. So far, we’ve had wonderful meals at couple of French bistros, a great Thai restaurant, a Moroccan café, a Chinese restaurant, a tiny Sushi bar, and a Mexican street taco joint, to name a few. And the Italian food here is amazing! (it seems there a lot of Italians living in Spain.) Oh yeah, and we have found two places that serve the best hamburgers ever. Our current list of places to try includes Peruvian, Ukrainian, Persian, and Indian restaurants…all within walking distance!

See what I mean? The biggest dining challenge we face is deciding where to eat next. 

WHEN TO EAT?

One other relatively minor dining challenge is timing. Here’s the deal – lunch is normally served from 1:30PM to 4PM and dinner from 9PM to 11:30PM. There are a few restaurants that are open all day, but those are typically in tourist areas and let’s just say they’re not always serving the best food. Reservations are a must, even at lunch because Valencians LOVE to eat out. We’re adjusting just fine…lunch at 2, siesta around 3:30, Ed starts work about 5 and finishes around 9-10, just in time for dinner.

If our timing is a bit off, there’s always the tapas bars to save the day. We can quench our hunger while waiting for the restaurants to open with a snack of tapas since many of the tapas bars are open from 11AM to Midnight without the siesta break. At least we don’t have to worry about starving.

NOT SO EXPENSIVE

You might be wondering if we’re going to spend our life savings on eating and drinking. I suppose that could happen, but it will take a while here in Valencia. A glass of wine is €2-4 (at the current exchange rate that comes to about $2.50-4.50), and a nice bottle of wine is €5-7. Beer and café con leche are €1-2, street tacos are €3 each, and one of those awesome burgers is a bit pricy at €10-12.

MENU DEL DIA

One of the best deals around is menú del día which is offered at midday (typically the largest meal of the day in Spain). Siesta, as I’ve mentioned once or twice, is the traditional work break from 1:30 to 4:30PM. Basically, just imagine that the restaurants work when no one else does (during siesta and after the working hours) and they rest (as in close their doors) when everyone else is at work. It’s a nice arrangement for everyone. All this to say, menú del día is a wonderful midday repast. These menus often include a starter, main course, dessert, wine, bread, and coffee and sometimes you even get a “chupito” to finish off (that’s a shot of some tasty digestivo type liquor). To get the best deal, it’s important to pay attention to small details. For example, the difference between “o” and “y” as in Postre y Café or Postre o Café. The “y” is better of course because then it means dessert AND coffee. Prices for the menú del día range from 8 Euros to around 15 Euros. Of course, some of the high-end restaurants charge more, but there are plenty of good options in the €8-15 range. So, we’re not too worried about breaking the bank!

 ¡Que Aproveche la Comida!  (Spanish version of Bon Appétit).

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SHOP TIL YOU DROP

Leave a Comment / / March 14, 2026

Buenas! (shortcut for Buenos Días, Buenos Tardes, Buenos Noches…a sweet and simple way to say “Hello” at any time of the day.) We had wonderful visit with Mark and Shannon during Valencia’s crazy annual festival – Las Fallas. Ed has some thoughts to share about that wild experience, but that’s another post for another day. Stay tuned. In the meantime, we’ve embraced the “shop til you drop” approach to life as an Expat.

Expat day #53

Mark & Shannon in Valencia!

El Corte Inglés is a Madrid-based department store chain (largest in Europe) with a big presence throughout Spain. The Valencia store is in two separate buildings – one is household stuff, the other clothing and personal care items. The El Corte Inglés household goods store feels like our second Valencian home. The six floors contain everything you could possibly imagine, and it can be a bit overwhelming. One day, I was looking for an iron and found the iron section in two rows – steam irons on one row, dry irons on the other. My decision to buy a plancha de vapor narrowed the options down to about 30. That’s right, 30 different steam irons to choose from. On our way out with my new iron, we passed the row displaying immersion blenders – 28 different brands.

It’s been a busy time in Valencia! We were so thrilled to have Mark and Shannon visit us for a week. We enjoyed sharing our new city with them. The week they were here was the final week of Valencia’s annual festival – Las Falles. Wow! What an experience that was! It’s difficult to describe the scene and the experience – think Mardi Gras on massive steroids with lots of firecrackers. Stay tuned for Ed’s insights about this amazing event.

Learning to Shop

We’ve made good progress making a home here. The new mattress is comfy, and the sheets fit! We make and receive calls using our Spanish phone numbers. We have a debit card to draw Euros from our Spanish bank account. We moved out of the temporary rental and are settling into our new place. Of course, this has required lots of shopping. Our three main shopping options have included El Corte Inglés, various el Chinos, and Amazon (still trying to wean myself). Each provide plenty of opportunity for learning!

Another item on my shopping list was a throw – you know, those small, decorative blankets we throw over the sofa. I thought I’d have to consult Google Translate to be sure the clerk didn’t think I was planning to toss a sofa somewhere. Instead, I looked around and saw the word “manta” on signs above blankets for the bed and I came up with “¿Tienes una manta pequeña?” It worked! (I’m so proud of myself for this small accomplishment, but also for finding that upside down question mark using my keyboard just now.) El Corte Inglés can be mentally exhausting. Fortunately, there’s a taxi stand just outside to make getting the goods home a breeze and a glass of wine to enjoy at one of numerous cafes near our new place.

Lastly, the Amazon shopping experience is a familiar one but does contribute to my goal of becoming more proficient at communicating in Spanish. Amazon’s Spain website allows me to shop and purchase items in English, but all the follow-up emails regarding purchases and delivery status are in Spanish. Then, there’s the process of navigating the Amazon app in Spanish to open the delivery locker in the nearby small supermercado.  

CHINA STORES

Shopping option #2 – el Chino. When we were here last September, there was a store we walked past every day that seemed like a version of a Dollar Store in the U.S. Lots of cheap stuff, all made in China. Some of our expat friends mentioned shopping at the “China Stores” and I wasn’t sure how I felt about using this term – if felt pejorative and disrespectful. Now, I’ve shopped in a few of these stores and learned a bit about them. Usually they’re called something like “Chino Bazaar” or “Asia Bazaar” but locals refer to them as “el Chino.”  They’re everywhere – so far, I’ve found four el Chinos within a 5-minute walk from our apartment. They vary in size, and all are absolutely stuffed with every conceivable item you can think of.

Some interesting background…until relatively recently, there were no convenience stores in Spain. Retail had always been a highly regimented and regulated affair: you bought your newspapers from the newspaper stand; your cigarettes (and bus passes?) from the tobacco store; medicine from the pharmacy; bread and milk at the grocer’s – or more recently, the supermercado (supermarket); etc. There are thousands of these little shops all over Valencia, and they have similar opening and closing hours. Typically, they are open from 10am to 1:30pm and from 5.30pm to 8.30pm (lunch is at 2 and is followed by siesta). While shops in the tourist areas are an exception, it’s not uncommon to find even supermarkets closed for 2-3 hours every afternoon. Don’t worry, we’re learning to enjoy siesta time!

Anyway, back to the el Chinos. It would have been almost impossible to find a Chinese person in Spain prior to the 1980s. (General Franco’s dictatorship wasn’t too keen on communist China.) Since the early 2000’s, identifying a need, Chinese immigrants have dedicated themselves to the opening of these stores. They are all owned and staffed by Chinese families who sometimes speak a little Spanish and usually no English. These stores have been a game changer for Spain. There are often rumblings in the press about how success of these stores’ rests on sweatshop labor practices. But, their products, and especially the very low prices, are very popular. So, the el Chino is now a feature of Spanish life.

The el Chino store has three main characteristics: it stocks a little bit of everything; it is not luxuriously outfitted (let’s just say they don’t invest much in appearances); and it hardly ever closes (definitely not for siesta). Inside the el Chino things are often somewhat ramshackle. Also, being open all the time, reinforces the stereotype that exists among the Spanish of the hardworking Chinese. In fact, in Spain, the phrase for killing yourself working is “trabajando como un chino” (working liking a Chinese).

PLAN B

This week brings more adventure. In addition to our regular visit to El Corte Inglés, we have an appointment at the Police Department to get fingerprinted for our residence card, cocktail hour with a big group of expat friends, and we leave for a 12-day get-away to Italy on Friday!

Adiós, hasta la próxima.

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