Even more of our craaaaazy travel hacks!

For other travel hack columns, go to Part Twenty-Four and Part Twenty-Five and Part Twenty-Six and Part Twenty-Seven and Part Twenty-Eight and Part Twenty-Nine and Part Thirty and Part Thirty-One and Part Thirty-Two and Part Thirty-Three and Part Thirty-Four.

Here are our latest hacks:

Hide your valuables?

It’s the age-old travel question: if your room doesn’t have a safe, is it better to hide your money and valuables somewhere in the room, or somewhere in your bag? Yes, people are more likely to find something hidden in your bag, but on the other hand, you’re more likely to forget your valuables if you hide them in the room — especially on a long-term stay.

And forgetting your passport can be a total disaster.

As for me, I hide my valuables in a secret compartment in my large bag (which I think thieves are less likely to steal outright). Yes, they’re less secure, but I also know I’ll never be in a rush and accidentally leave them behind.

Make your pancakes fluffy

If your pancakes and waffles aren’t fluffy, you’re probably making a basic mistake: not letting your batter “rest” before cooking — at least ten minutes but ideally up to 30 minutes. This allows time for the flour, milk, and baking soda to interact, creating those little air bubbles that make everything fluffy.

In fact, that old adage about how the first pancake is terrible and you have to throw it away? That’s not (just) because the skillet isn’t hot enough — it’s because your batter hasn’t rested.

Easily identify your different cords

As a digital nomad, I travel with all my cords in one big pouch — cables to charge or power all my electronics. And for a long time, they were one big, indecipherable jumble.

But lately, I’ve started buying colored cords to easily tell them apart! Another option is to give them all plastic labels.

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I grew up in Washington State and have long loved the San Juan Islands — part of an archipelago in northern Puget Sound on the border with Canada. (The Canadian islands in the same cluster are called the Gulf Islands, and they’re great too.)

The area is extraordinarily beautiful — famous for its scenic vistas, fantastic boating possibilities, and vibrant wildlife, especially the many killer whales, which include three “resident” pods (that eat Chinook salmon) and various “visiting” pods (which primarily eat marine mammals like seals).

But Michael and I are back in Washington State for the summer, living here after ten years away as digital nomads, and I’ve been shocked and disappointed by the ugly sprawl and congestion that has engulfed far too much of the Puget Sound area — spreading out from booming Seattle like the orc armies in The Lord of the Rings marching outward from Mordor, destroying everything of beauty that gets in their path.

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Naturally, I wondered, “Have the orcs reached the San Juan Islands? And even if they haven’t, are the islands suffering from overtourism like so much of the rest of the world?”

We decided to visit to find out. And honestly, the answer really surprised me.

Here are all the ways one of my favorite places in the world has changed in recent years — for better and for worse:

The islands can be crowded, but the tourist season is very short.

An islander told Michael and me that the high season of the San Juan Islands is from Memorial Day to Labor Day. “But things don’t really pick up until after the Fourth of July,” she added.

We were there in late June, and frankly, the crowds seemed very light. “Bookings have been slow this year,” she admitted.

But the day we were leaving, I saw a preview of the months ahead: an absolute crush of people getting off the morning ferry — more walk-ons than I’ve seen on any Washington State Ferry ever.

Four of the San Juan Islands are served by these ferries. Of these four, here are the islands’ notable qualities:

• San Juan Island: The most populous island, home to the islands’ only incorporated town, Friday Harbor, and about 50% of the islands’ total residents. But with a summer population of 20,000 — and a year-round one of less than 9000 — it still doesn’t feel very populated. This island is a collection of bucolic farms, lush forests, and fantastic parks, many right along the water, and is also home to Roche Harbor, a high-end marina and housing development that I wish I didn’t find as charming as I do.

• Orcas Island: The largest and also the hilliest, with Mount Constitution, which, at 2,400 feet (730 meters), offers truly breathtaking views of the surrounding islands. All the islands have a funky, drop-out vibe (and are very LGBTQ-friendly), but Orcas is probably the funkiest, especially with Doe Bay Resort, where you can stay in a yurt, eat fantastic vegetarian meals, and soak naked in the hot tubs. Fun fact: contrary to what many assume, Orcas Island was not named after the local orca whales but after the person who commissioned an early expedition to the area.

  

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• Shaw Island: The least developed island with no overnight lodgings except for a small campground, the smallest year-round population — less than 200 — and exactly one amenity: a small store at the ferry landing. But the island makes for a wonderful afternoon bike ride.

• Lopez Island: The flattest island and the best for biking — the first hill after the ferry landing is a killer, but it’s mostly fine after that. Don’t miss Shark Reef Sanctuary at the southern end of the island, a wooded park that offers amazing views of the reef-strewn passage between Lopez and San Juan Islands, where you will almost certainly see seals sunning themselves and great plumes of seabirds fighting over whatever it is seabirds fight about. But alas, I’ve been here at least a dozen times and never seen an actual shark. (I would make a joke about how maybe it wasn’t named after marine animals either, but a person — John L. Shark — but it was actually named by another early explorer who thought some of the rocks looked like a shark.)

Expert Tip: Washington State’s tourist season is so short because the weather is absolutely wonderful in July and August — and outright crappy or at least “unpredictable” the rest of the year. But with climate change, things are shifting, and the hordes don’t seem to have caught on just yet. Go in July or August if you must, but I recommend late May, June, or especially September, when the weather will probably still be great, but you’ll have the place almost entirely to yourself.

The killer whales are starving, but there’s still lots of stunning wildlife.

The San Juan Islands may be most famous for the killer whales, but here’s a sad fact: the three “resident” pods are slowly starving, because human development and climate change have seriously impacted the local salmon population.

I want to say to these whales: “You’re supposedly so smart, but you can’t just switch from one specific species of salmon to other fish — or eating seals like the transient whale pods? You’re so picky with your eating habits that you’d rather die?”

But that’s blaming the victim, isn’t it?

(And all joking aside, the truth is that the resident whales have evolutionally lost the ability to eat seals and, at this point, have jaws that can only manage fish. So this tragedy really is all humanity’s fault.)

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It’s a bit of a local debate about how many islands are in the San Juan chain, in part because the tides expose various islands, rocks, and reefs, and even the number of named “islands” is in dispute — somewhere between 125 and 178.

Four of the islands are served by the Washington State Ferries. Twelve more have year-round residents, but can only be reached by boat, water taxi, private ferry, or plane. And ten of the islands are marine parks, accessible only by boat, some of which allow overnight camping.

Lopez Island is lacking in public space, but San Juan and Orcas are teeming with massive parks and wildlife preserves that are big enough to include long, satisfying hikes, often with stunning views. (As old islanders die, they’re donating huge swaths of their land for preservation, and we thank them heartily for it!)

Expert Tip: A new park has opened on Shaw Island, the Marilyn and Fred Ellis Preserve, which includes a lovely four-mile loop forest trail with water views. The preserve is a mere two-mile walk or bike ride from the ferry landing — and by far the most scenic route is the one that goes by Reef Net Bay.

The ferry system tells a great story, but it’s a hot mess.

When you first leave on the ferry from Anacortes, the scenery isn’t that spectacular. But then you pass by the first island in the archipelago, the mainland falls away behind you, and you enter an absolute paradise of scenic wonder.

And at the very end of the line — San Juan Island, the farthest island in the run — the boat docks at what is surely one of the most picturesque towns in the entire world, Friday Harbor.

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You only pay to ride eastbound ferries, so you’re essentially paying for a round-trip ticket when you first board. Once you’re on the islands, you can ride for free in any direction on foot or by bicycle — but if you’re visiting multiple islands by car, you should start with the island farthest to the east; otherwise, you’ll have to pay a small additional fee.

One of the things I most love about the San Juan Islands is that, unlike Canada’s Gulf Islands farther north, the ferries run multiple boats to all four main islands all day, so you can “island hop” as much as you want — taking, say, a morning boat from Orcas to Shaw for an afternoon bike ride, and still be home for dinner.

All this said, the ferry system is a bit of a hot mess. We found the boats chronically late, and the operators repeatedly canceled runs to specific islands to make up for lost time. There are posters on the boats bragging about the system’s high on-time arrival rates, but what these posters don’t say is that I suspect if you looked only at the summer months, their on-time rates would be crap.

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Unlike when I was younger, the ferry system has now instituted a reservation system for cars — and while they set aside a few standby slots on all the boats, reservations are absolutely required in both directions during the summer months. Otherwise you could literally be waiting all day. But walk-ons and bikers don’t need reservations (and there’s a large paid parking lot at the ferry landing on the mainland).

Expert Tip: The “town center” of Orcas Island, Eastsound, is in the middle of the island, not at the ferry landing. But there’s an old hotel right at that landing, the Orcas Hotel, that gives you easy access to all four main islands without a car. Book a room here, spend a day or two exploring Orcas via the local shuttle [currently down for maintenance], then you can easily ferry-hop to the other islands for the afternoon or whole day. You can also rent cars on Orcas or San Juan, arranging the shuttle in advance or having a car left for you at the ferry landing.

Prices are high, but most of the businesses seem locally owned.

In nearby Seattle, I recently bought a ridiculously expensive loaf of bread at a bakery — and the touchscreen made it very difficult for me not to leave a minimum 20% tip. (For what exactly? Literally handing me a loaf of bread?!)

Since prices are so insane in Seattle, I expected them to be even more ridiculous in the remote San Juan Islands.

And they… weren’t nearly as high as I expected! Even though it was the high season, we found a small but lovely one-bedroom Airbnb in Friday Harbor for one week for $1,600 USD (all fees included).

Better still, we saw zero fast food restaurants or chains of any kind anywhere on the islands. Almost all of the businesses seemed locally owned and operated.

And, granted, it was the very start of the high season, but the service seemed surprisingly friendly and competent. But as with any high-tourist area, research restaurant choices carefully, because those in prominent locations are often subpar. The gems tend to be more hidden.

Expert Tip: Because the islands are so remote, we expected prices at the local supermarket to be sky-high, but they were… also quite reasonable! To avoid eating all your meals out, get a place with a kitchenette.

So have the San Juan Islands been ruined?

No! The orcs of Mordor have not yet reached one of my favorite places in the world!

This outcome really did surprise me. On one hand, the ferry system — and its hit-or-miss operation — can make it fairly frustrating to get to and around the San Juan Islands, especially in the summer months.

On the other hand, I think it’s absolutely the frustration factor of the ferries that has helped preserve the character of one of my favorite places on earth, at least for a few more years.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

I have almost no regrets about my life. Why would I? I have a great husband, an exciting life of travel, and a satisfying career as a travel writer and photographer.

But I do have one regret — a very big one.

And if I let myself think about it, I can get very angry.

Like Godzilla with glasses.

So I try not to think about this Big Regret. I keep it locked in a tightly sealed metaphorical box shoved in the back of a deep, dark closet.

If I did open this box, what would be inside?

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As the birthplace of the frozen dessert known as gelato, it’s also hard to get outright terrible gelato.

But that doesn’t mean all gelato are created equal — not by a long shot.

First, a hill I will die on: Gelato is better than ice cream.

What’s the difference between them anyway?

Ice cream is made with sugar, cream, and egg yolks, but gelato is generally made with a lot less sugar, whole milk (or milk and cream together), and no egg yolks. Gelato is also churned much more slowly, so less air is whipped into it, and it is chilled but not frozen solid.

The end result is smoother and denser than ice cream, more intense, and served at a warmer temperature so the tongue registers more of the flavor. A little gelato goes a long way.

Meanwhile, ice cream is colder with a lot more fat, sugar, and whipped air. The fat and cold tend to overwhelm the taste buds, but along with all that air, they also make it easier to eat in large quantities.

Or, to reuse what the TV show The Good Place said about frozen yogurt: “There’s something so human about taking something great and ruining it a little so you can have more of it.”

Why exactly is Italian gelato so good?

One night in Italy, after trying a particularly good gelato, I said to an Italian friend, “I’ve had lots of gelato in lots of different countries. Ice cream too. But it never tastes this good. What’s the secret?”

She nodded sagely, as if my opinion of Italian gelato was simply objective fact.

Then she said, “You must start with fresh, local ingredients. And you must never skimp on the flavors. There are so many more peaches in peach gelato than you might think. But that’s as it should be. The point is to make peaches that taste like gelato, not gelato that tastes like peaches.”

Don’t you just love the way Italians talk about food?

After spending serious time in Italy, I’ve now become a full-fledged gelato snob. And from my Italian friends, I’ve also learned a few things about picking the best gelato.

Here’s their — and my — advice:

Look for sealed containers or gelato that don’t rise above the rim of a flat tray.

The best gelato is usually sold out in covered containers, which keeps the product at the perfect temperature — important for flavor. It can also be sold from shallow, lidless metal tubs that are stored in refrigerated glass cases.

What you don’t want — but what you often see in Italy’s heavy tourist areas — is gelaterias where the gelato are heaped up over the lip of the bin in huge mounds.

This is a sign that the gelato includes additives like vegetable oils or emulsifiers, or it has been frozen — both indications of lower quality.

Likewise, the best gelato is not necessarily the prettiest.

The best gelato are not brightly or vividly colored. In fact, super-bright colors can indicate the presence of food color or dyes that could be disguising the lack of real fruit or nuts. A bright yellow banana flavor is a bad sign.

In general, gelato should look like its actual flavor. Pure pistachio gelato, for example, is brownish. Sure, some gelaterias might add a greenish tint, but a vibrant green is another bad sign. Likewise, a bright green mint.

Meanwhile, don’t get too distracted by the pretty stuff on top.

“I tend to avoid flavors that have some embellishment on top, such as Oreo cookies, the corresponding fruit, nuts, hazelnuts, mint leaves, or chocolate pieces,” one Italian friend tells me. “The ingredients should be used for making the flavor and, as such, properly blended into the mix.”

Check the temperature.

When it comes to gelato, temperature is very important. When served, it should be neither completely frozen nor already melting. It also shouldn’t be glassy.

“Finding ice crystals in your gelato is bad,” another friend tells me, “because it means it melted at some point and then was refrozen, or it was poorly made in the first place.”

In fact, if you find ice crystals in your gelato, you should refuse it, as it might very well be spoiled.

Consider how it’s scooped.

The consistency of gelato is also very important: because it should be denser than ice cream, it’s best scooped with a flat metal spade, not a traditional ice cream scoop.

Meanwhile, gelato should absolutely be served in a cone, not a cup — although I concede that’s just a personal preference and not an indication of quality.

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Take special note of the fruit flavors.

Fruit and berry flavors should definitely look like they’re made from actual fruit and berries. Indeed, look for seeds, pulp, or skin, which are good things because they indicate that real food is being used in substantial quantities.

Meanwhile, the best gelaterias use quality local ingredients, which means mostly seasonal fruits and berries.

Sure, they may keep really popular flavors on hand year-round, but if they have every fruit flavor imaginable, this is a sign that you’re patronizing a place that’s using mixes or bulk deliveries — especially if the fruits come in unnatural colors.

Incidentally, fruit-flavored gelato is often made without milk (and is technically not gelato at all, but sorbetto). But some fruit flavors are made with milk, and this is also totally acceptable.

It’s good if they have unusual flavors.

Another good indicator of quality? Unique flavors.

“It tends to be an indicator of quality, as it indicates their own production and dedication to their business,” says one friend.

Once, Michael and I saw a shop selling “olive oil” flavor gelato, which we had no interest in trying. But they got points for originality!

The most expensive gelato flavor to produce is hazelnut, or nocciola. And if they offer it without added chocolate, this is a very good sign of quality, because it shows they think it can stand on its own.

This is also my personal favorite flavor — an absolute taste sensation.

Read the ingredients.

Italian gelaterias often post signs with their ingredients — and it’s a good sign when they do: a quality gelateria will be proud to show off their fresh, local, quality ingredients.

Even so, here are some ingredients to look out for: olio vegetale (or vegetable oil) or artificial colors and flavors (which are often indicated by numbers or letters).

One very popular Italian flavor is frutti di bosco, which means “fruit of the forest,” and is typically made from whatever berries or cherries are in season. If they have it, you can read the label to see if your gelatario (or gelato-maker) is using seasonal fruits.

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Sample the fior di latte or fior di panna, even if you don’t ultimately choose them.

These are the most basic flavors of gelato, offered by most premium gelaterias: fior di latte means “flower of the milk,” and fior di panna means “sweet cream.” They’re generally made with the highest quality milk or cream, and the flavor can be very subtle, like a very mild vanilla.

If neither of these flavors is offered, it’s a bad sign. But it can also be a bad sign if the flavors include chocolate chips, or pieces of fruit, or are drizzled in syrup. It might mean they’re trying to disguise lower-quality cream or milk.

“I do not like this practice,” says one friend. “They are using the cream as the base and the syrup to provide the flavor.”

A respectable gelateria will allow you to sample their wares, and the fior di latte or fior di panna are good choices to try to discern overall gelato quality, even if neither is the flavor you finally choose.

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Overwhelmed? Ignore me.

Look, I’ve already admitted I’ve become a total gelato snob, and we all know that nothing sucks the joy of something faster than when someone nearby is being a snob about it.

In short, I’m giving you permission to take whatever makes sense from everything I’ve written here — and completely ignore the rest. In the end, the whole point of gelato is to enjoy it.

So enjoy it!

And if you’re ever in doubt, just get the chocolate — either cioccolato fondente (without milk) or cioccolato al latte (with milk).

I think we can all agree it’s hard to screw up too badly when you’re making something out of pure chocolate.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

Oh, and we also spent a week visiting some friends who happened to be living in a small city in the middle of the country named Gouda, which is most well-known for, yes, the famous cheese.

(But unlike the English pronunciation of the cheese — “GOO-dah” — the name of the city is pronounced “KHOW-dah” with a harsher throatier sound, more of a very guttural “ch” sound.)

And despite the fact that we never would have visited Gouda if not for our friends, of all the places we saw in the Netherlands, we ended up liking Gouda best.

It wasn’t even close. We loved Gouda — and had very mixed feelings about Amsterdam.

Which seems like something worth exploring, don’t you think?

Yes, you should still visit Amsterdam.

Amsterdam is a fascinating, world-class city. It has a trio of fantastic museums: the Rijksmuseum, the Anne Frank Museum, and the Van Gogh Museum.

And it has the infamous Red Light District, a ton of fascinating history, and lots and lots of canals, which can be quite beautiful.

But even in wet, grey, drizzly November, the city was absolutely mobbed, and everything was really expensive. In ten years of travel, it was the most we’ve ever paid for a hotel room, and it was the smallest and worst hotel room we’ve ever stayed in.

Look, part of the reason we loved Gouda was obviously because we were visiting very dear friends.

But, well, we visited friends in Amsterdam too.

And yes, we had sky-high expectations for Amsterdam and none at all for Gouda.

Even so, here are all the reasons why, if you go to the Netherlands, you should consider going to Amsterdam and Gouda.

But even if you have no interest in Amsterdam or Gouda, this is also a pretty good case study in the benefits of visiting lesser-known places outside of the major tourist centers, especially if you want to make connections and get a sense of how locals really live.

Gouda isn’t all about cheese, but the cheese is pretty damn good.

I’m lactose intolerant, so I couldn’t eat any of Gouda’s famous cheese. But I’m told that young Gouda is mild, creamy, and slightly sweet, while aged Gouda becomes firmer, richer, and nuttier.

Which, ironically, can also be said of me.

Gouda cheese dates back to the 13th century, which means it’s one of the world’s oldest cheeses still in wide production today.

However, because the cheese became so well-known and so widely produced — and also because the cheese was produced in the surrounding region, not the city — it does not have the Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) status of, say, Roquefort, feta, or Parmigiano Reggiano.

And even if you are lactose intolerant, you can consume another internationally known Dutch product that was born in Gouda: the stroopwafel.

“Stroopwafel” is a mashup of the Dutch words for “syrup” and “waffle,” and that’s exactly what they are: two thin waffles glued together with syrup — often caramel — to form a kind of sandwich cookie.

Stroopwafels’ actual origin — and their original inventor — is lost to the mists of time, but they first appeared in Gouda in the late 18th or 19th centuries, probably by bakers repurposing scraps.

Today, you can find stroopwafels all over Gouda, including a store that is nothing but a giant vending machine dispensing them!

Gouda is the center of some terrific biking.

True story: When we told our Dutch friend Miek we wanted to go on a bike ride, she didn’t understand the concept.

“Why?” she asked us.

“For fun!” we tried to explain.

“For fun?” she said. “I don’t understand. Who rides a bike for fun?”

Which is a perfectly reasonable attitude, given that Miek rode her bike forty minutes every day to get to work, often in the rain. For the Dutch, bikes are strictly utilitarian.

But Miek humored her crazy American friends and led us on an amazing ride through the beautiful Dutch countryside.

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Back in the summer of 2024, Brent and I were living in Oslo, Norway, when I slipped and hit my head at a swimming pool so hard that I landed in the hospital.

The doctor carefully examined me, stitched me up, and then, after an MRI found no brain bleed or fracture, cleared me to go home.

But he told Brent to watch me closely and gave me strict orders to rest my brain for four days. “No screens, no reading, and no writing, or you might make things worse,” he warned.

That left little for me to do other than go for walks. So the next day, after promising a worried Brent I would call immediately if I felt worse, I headed outside.

Ever since the accident, I’d felt disconnected — from the world, from Brent, even from myself. My head still ached, and I was hyper-aware of my footing and of how vulnerable I was.

I soon came upon Gravlund Vestre, Norway’s largest cemetery.

The air was damp and cool, the sky a uniform gray. All the green felt soothing, and the cemetery’s quiet felt almost physical, as if it would wrap around and protect me if I stepped inside.

I entered.

The graves stretched out in front of me, modest and uniform — simple headstones low to the ground. There was a kind of quiet discipline to it, a sense that no one was meant to stand too far above anyone else — a classic Norwegian idea.

At the same time, some of the headstones were askew and the rows curved just enough to be interesting.

But one headstone seemed different from the rest: a white marble bust in a distant corner of the cemetery.

It stood out against the gray morning and green grass, set atop a black granite plinth. From fifty meters away, it seemed almost to glow. I assumed it marked someone notable — a writer, perhaps, or a musician — and I walked toward it.

Up close, I saw the name.

Jade Olav Kamøy Aoude.
Born December 1996.
Died September 2016.

A young man, only nineteen when he passed.

The bust showed a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt. His expression was soft, almost amused, as if he knew something you didn’t. Someone had planted daisies at the base, a Norwegian flag tucked in among them. Two white lanterns stood on either side.

A drop of rain clung to his cheek like a tear.

I stood in front of the grave, wondering about the story behind it. It was clearly designed to make sure the young man wasn’t forgotten, and it was obviously well-tended.

Movement nearby caught my eye. A man in his fifties headed my direction. He was the only other person in the cemetery.

He can’t be coming here, I thought. That would be too much of a coincidence.

But it seemed like he was.

I stepped away, down the row, just in case.

He nodded as he passed me, then stopped in front of the marble bust — the grave of the boy named Jade. He reached out to brush a leaf from the plinth.

Should I leave? I didn’t want to intrude. But I also wanted to say something to acknowledge what had happened to someone he cared about.

“I couldn’t help but notice the headstone,” I spoke at last. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said. “This is my son.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nodded graciously, but a bit like he’d heard the words a thousand times.

Then he stood there, just looking. He clearly belonged here, was rooted to this place in a way both terrible and beautiful.

I should leave. I turned and walked away.

But after twenty meters, I stopped.

It wasn’t his son’s birthday, and it wasn’t the anniversary of his death. The man was just there to spend time with him.

What if this were Brent’s grave? If a stranger had been standing beside me, would I want them to quietly disappear, or would I want to tell them about Brent?

After hemming and hawing a bit, I finally turned back.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t mean to interrupt — but if you’d like to tell me about your son, I’d love to listen.”

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “I would like that very much.”

We introduced ourselves — the man’s name was Saleh. We shook hands.

“Your son looks like he was very kind,” I said.

“He was,” Saleh replied. “A good son. My wife and I were very blessed.” He looked at the bust. “I come here to talk with him.”

He said it simply, without emphasis. Just a fact about his life now.

I wondered how Jade had died. As if reading my mind, Saleh said, “He was at university in Sweden. Riding his bike. A car hit him.” He paused. “One minute he was here, and then in a split second, he was gone.”

My mind flashed back to the pool where I’d hit my head. If things had happened a little differently, I could have been gone in a split second too. I remembered how scared I’d been afterward, and how strange I’d felt ever since.

Saleh pointed to an engraving near the top of the plinth. A small skateboard.

“He loved skateboarding,” he said.

Below that, four figures reached upward, as if trying to reach Jade.

“That is his mother and sisters,” Saleh explained. “It says, ‘It is with us that you should have been.’”

We stood quietly for a moment.

I asked about the line of Arabic script above Jade’s name.

“It says, ‘My beloved son Jade,’” Saleh said. “I am from Syria and wanted him to feel connected to his Syrian heritage.”

“Do you like Norway?” I asked.

“Norway is a very good country,” he said. “People have been kind. Now I feel that I am both Syrian and Norwegian and have deep roots here.” He glanced around at the surrounding graves. “But we wanted something more for him.” He gestured to the sculpture. “We asked permission. They allowed it.”

I thought about what that meant: building a life in a new country, raising a son, but then losing him so young. How some hurts probably never heal.

“You must miss him terribly.”

“I do. I come here to tell him what is happening. What his sisters are doing. And I think about what he might be doing now if not for that accident. He’d be twenty-seven. He’d have his degree in cognitive science, maybe he’d have his PhD. Perhaps he’d be married. Coming here keeps him close to me.”

We talked a bit about what Brent and I were doing in Oslo, and what I thought of Norway. But the man had come to see his son, and I’d taken enough of his time.

“Thank you for talking with me,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s good to speak of Jade.”

We shook hands, and I left him there with his son.

I walked slowly back past the rows of modest stones, under the same gray sky. My head still ached, and I was still all too aware of my own vulnerability.

But I no longer felt quite so disconnected.

I stepped out of the cemetery and home toward Brent.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

In the past week, the subject of San Francisco came up twice in conversations with friends. Both folks had recently visited the city, but I heard two radically different takes.

“It’s finally coming back after COVID!” the first person told me. “The city feels more vibrant than ever.”

But the second person said, “There are homeless people everywhere. And drugs — right out in the open! I truly think the city might be gone for good.”

Very few cities are as iconic as San Francisco, which displayed its trademark tolerance right from the start.

In the mid-19th century, the Chinese, who came to the area to work in the mines during the Gold Rush (and who also built the Transcontinental Railroad), were scorned in much of America, but they were welcomed with open arms in the City by the Bay.

Even Chinatown’s popular “opium dens” were accepted by local residents.

Now, of course, San Francisco is known for its unabashedly left-wing politics. The city is shorthand for a certain kind of highly educated, ultra-liberal progressivism and, perhaps, starry-eyed idealism.

This is why Americans themselves perceive the same city so differently. San Francisco has become a kind of national Rorschach test.

If you lean left — or if you’re generally supportive of the cultural changes of the last eighty years — it’s in your interest to see the city through sympathetic eyes.

San Francisco has its problems, these folks say, and maybe it went a little too far with the “woke” nuttiness. But things are already looking up!

But if you lean right — or you’re more of a traditionalist in your point of view — you might look at the city with a more critical eye, because this confirms your priors: namely, that the endless permissiveness of the left can’t help but end in total disaster.

Of course, the most accurate take on San Francisco is, er, mine:

I think there’s some truth to both perspectives.

San Francisco is a great city, but it also has massive problems — namely, an insane cost of living, out-of-control homelessness, and general social disorder.

Alas, I also think that the thing that makes San Francisco so unique — its defiant tolerance and permissiveness — is the thing that may make its current problems very difficult to solve.

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A few years ago, when Michael and I were living in Sibiu, Romania, we decided to take the train to Budapest, our next digital nomad destination.

“Let’s get our tickets early,” I said. “I don’t want them to sell out.”

When it comes to travel, I like things to be fairly well planned, so there’s less confusion and chaos at the last minute. Plus, it was an overnight trip, and I wanted to make sure we got a sleeper.

So the next day, we walked the two kilometers to the train station to purchase our tickets.

The clerk didn’t speak English, but we used Google Translate to explain what we wanted, and she printed out our tickets: the first leg on a Romanian train to Mediaș, about an hour away. Once there, we’d catch a Hungarian train with a sleeper to Budapest.

With that chore out of the way, I could finally relax.

But a couple of days later, Michael said to me, completely out of the blue, “I think there’s a problem with our tickets to Budapest.”

“Oh?” I said. “What kind of problem?”

“Let’s just double-check them, okay?”

So we got the tickets out and examined them. We had different tickets for the two different trains, and everything was in a foreign language. They also used the European twenty-four-hour clock, which we still weren’t quite used to.

But everything seemed to check out okay.

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I looked at Michael. “Why exactly did you think they were wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just have a funny feeling.”

I was tempted to tease Michael, but this was shortly after the rollout of the COVID vaccine, and there were a lot of travel restrictions — and regulations were constantly in flux.

Plus, after six years of travel, we’d both learned that you should try to pay attention to your gut.

But when we searched online, there didn’t seem to be any new travel restrictions either. So finally, Michael admitted, “I guess I was wrong.”

A few days later, still a week before our trip, Michael said, “I still think there’s something wrong with our tickets.”

He fiddled with his phone for a moment, then said, “I knew something was wrong. The online schedule doesn’t match up with our tickets. The schedule must have changed.”

Once again, I was tempted to tease him, saying, And you knew this how? Communing with the Great Beyond?

But once again, I respected his gut. So instead, I said, “Let’s go back to the train station and get this sorted.”

When we got to the station, this clerk didn’t speak English either, but we used Google Translate to explain the differing schedules.

She looked from our phone to our tickets, then pecked away at her keyboard. Then she looked up and said, “Trains fine — tickets good.”

“So the schedule hasn’t changed?” Michael said.

But she was already hustling us along to talk to the next customer.

Outside the train station, Michael stopped on the sidewalk.

“Now what?” I said.

“I still feel like something is wrong,” he said.

“But we just had the clerk look at them,” I said. “She confirmed that everything is okay.”

It’s true that I always try to respect the “travel gut,” but in addition to being a fairly organized traveler, I’m also very fundamentally a rule-follower. And no less an authority than the clerk in the train station had just said our tickets were fine.

“Maybe Google made a mistake,” I said. “Even without COVID, they’re wrong a lot. And with COVID…”

He nodded. “Yeah.” But he still didn’t sound convinced.

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The day of our trip to Hungary, Michael showered and packed early, but our train didn’t leave until five PM that night, and we’d arranged with our Airbnb host to stay there that afternoon. So I was taking it easy. It was well after noon, and I was only now getting around to taking a shower.

Suddenly, Michael appeared in the bathroom. “We have a problem!” he said through the glass.

I wiped the fog and stared out at him. “What kind of problem?”

“I just checked the times on our tickets again, and I think our train arrives in Mediaș after our train leaves for Budapest!”

I didn’t say anything for a second. “Is this about that funny feeling you had?”

He nodded.

“But the clerk in the train station said our tickets were good!” I protested.

“I guess she was wrong!”

The pipes in the shower squealed as I turned off the hot water. “You think our train arrives after our second train leaves, or you’re sure?”

Even though I was still dripping wet and naked, he showed me the tickets. Now that I knew what to look for, it did seem like we arrived into Mediaș at 7:12 PM — forty-two minutes after our train left for Budapest.

“There’s a train at two-fifty,” Michael said. “That’s the only way we’ll make the second train.”

“But that means…”

He looked at his phone. “We have exactly forty-four minutes to get to the station!”

I started to panic. “But it’s two kilometers, and I’m not even packed!”

“Well, then you better hurry.”

“That can’t be right!” I said even as I was already roughly toweling off. “One agent sold us those tickets, and another one checked them to make sure they were right!”

Even now, I was having a hard time accepting that our traveling planning and our rule-following had so profoundly failed us.

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Go ask a neighbor!” I said. “While I pack? Someone who reads Romanian!”

Michael left, and I ran around the apartment throwing my things into my backpack.

Five minutes later, Michael returned and said, “I was right — we’re screwed!”

I hoisted my now-jammed backpack. “How long before that other train leaves?”

He checked his phone. “Thirty-five minutes. Do you think we can get a cab?”

“Of course we can!” I said. “There are two different taxi stands on our block alone.”

But naturally, for the first time since we’d moved in, both taxi stands were completely deserted.

I’m never following another rule ever again! I thought.

“What do we do?” Michael said.

“We’ll have to run for it!”

So we ran the two kilometers to the train station — despite the fact that we both carried forty-pound packs on our backs, and 15-pound day-packs on our fronts.

We staggered into the train station with twelve minutes to go.

“We still need to change the tickets!” I said.

But of course there was also a huge line at the one window for international departures. If we waited, we’d never make it on time.

“Screw that!” I said, lurching for the domestic ticket window, which had an open clerk.

We Google-translated our problem, and she checked our tickets.

Her brow furrowed. Then she took our tickets and disappeared toward the other window.

Two minutes later, the international agent waved us over, allowing us to cut in line. It was the same one as before, and she recognized us.

“Wrong tickets before,” she said, appropriately sheepish. “Very sorry.”

We grabbed the tickets and ran to the platform where our train was waiting. We found our seats and collapsed.

Moments later, the train pulled away.

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What’s the moral of the story? I think there are several.

First, you really can’t always trust authority, and following the rules doesn’t always get you where you need to go. I know this — I’ve written about this topic before. But I still frequently forget.

Second, always double-check your tickets — hell, when you’re traveling, double and triple-check everything. Michael and I are still astounded when checking out of an apartment, we’ll look around three times, then do one last walk-through “just to make sure” — and still find something important we would’ve otherwise left behind.

Finally, listening to your gut really is the single most important part of travel. Michael and I still find it fascinating that on some unconscious level, he knew something was wrong with those tickets — he just didn’t know what.

Now, when either of us has a funny feeling about anything, we listen. And if one of our guts is in conflict with the rules, the gut always wins.

P.S. It’s also a good idea to always be able to pack everything in less than five minutes.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

You guessed it! Still more unusual travel hacks.

For other travel hack columns, go to Part Twenty and Part Twenty-One and Part Twenty-Two and Part Twenty-Three and Part Twenty-Four and Part Twenty-Five and Part Twenty-Six and Part Twenty-Seven and Part Twenty-Eight and Part Twenty-Nine and Part Thirty and Part Thirty-One and Part Thirty-Two and Part Thirty-Three.

And here we go!

Document everything

Have a problem with a flight/rental car/hotel room — or worried that something might be a problem? Document everything with your phone by taking videos and/or photos.

Also, if anyone witnesses the event or if there are service people involved, get their names and contact information.

The more documentation you have, the (much) better off you will be in any resulting dispute.

Be wired and wireless

When it comes to earbuds for a phone, Michael prefers Bluetooth, and I (much) prefer corded. For one thing, the audio, connection, and price are both better — and yes, there’s a cord to manage, but the damn things also never need charging.

But the truth is, travelers sometimes need to be on their phones unexpectedly, often for long periods of time — for instance, to talk with customer support when things go wrong. So if you’re a Bluetooth person, you should still always carry both.

Bring an (almost) full tube of toothpaste in carry-ons

Michael and I have recently started flying with no checked baggage, just carry-ons. But one problem, of course, is toiletries: you’re not allowed to bring liquid containers larger than 100 milliliters (3.4 ounces), and all containers must fit in a single quart-sized bag.

Travel-sized toothpaste containers are so small that they’re almost worthless (and very expensive per ounce). So I started experimenting with how much I could fit in reusable travel containers.

And it turns out I could fit almost a whole tube!

Interestingly, the tube says it holds 6.4 ounces, so either Colgate is lying or it’s the maker of these travel containers. But either way, I’ve taken these containers through security many times, so I know it’s okay.

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My father was an abusive jerk.

He cheated on my mother, driving her to crazy extremes, and she often took her frustrations out on my younger brother and me.

My dad also gaslit us, convincing us that my mother was the real villain of the family. When I was twenty-eight, I asked him point-blank if he’d ever cheated on my mother, her most frequent and bitter accusation.

“Absolutely not,” he said, without hesitation.

I was an adult — in my forties — when my father had a mental breakdown, and I finally learned the truth: not just that he had been cheating on her, but he had also failed to pay his taxes for years, costing my mother her retirement savings and all but ruining her life.

These days, come Father’s Day, I don’t think of him except with scorn.

But that doesn’t mean Father’s Day means nothing to me. My biological father wasn’t worth celebrating, but there have been three amazing men in my life who definitely are.

Better still, each taught me a different lesson.

Family isn’t about being related by blood.

When I was eighteen, Walter, my maternal grandfather, had to have quadruple bypass heart surgery.

Worried that I might be worried about inheriting his heart problems, my mother revealed that her father was actually her stepfather, not her biological father.

I also learned that her biological father had been a drunken philanderer who cheated on and physically abused my grandmother — even more of a monster than my own biological father.

When my mom was still a girl, her father was supposed to spend Saturdays with her, but instead, he’d drop her off at the local cinema where she’d stay all day while he went out to gamble and drink. Worse, he threatened her if she told my grandmother the truth.

After my grandmother divorced him — something still quite scandalous in the 1940s — she remarried Walter, who immediately adopted my mother and became a loving and devoted father.

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My mother worried that knowing he wasn’t my biological grandfather might change how I felt about him.

But he was a kind and deeply decent man, who was as devoted to my brother and me as he was to my mother. I loved him dearly.

Knowing he wasn’t biologically related to me didn’t change a thing.

It’s okay to want an unconventional life.

Thanks to Walter, I met Phil, the next man who would help shape the person I would eventually become.

When I was eighteen, I was chosen to be a high school exchange student in Sydney, Australia. I was only able to go because my grandfather paid for the flight.

Phil was the father of my exchange partner, Gareth.

Upon arriving in Australia, I was concerned because Gareth and I had almost nothing in common. He was outgoing and popular, but also a pretty wild kid who drank a lot, skipped school, and was no stranger to trouble.

(He grew up to be a great guy and a wonderful father himself.)

But on my second day in Australia, Phil saw I was worried about something and took me for a walk on the beach. I expressed my concern.

Phil laughed. “Not only do I not expect you to be anything like Gareth, but I’d also prefer if you weren’t!” he said.

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Later, Phil and I were talking about the future, and he asked, “What kind of life do you want?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I know I don’t want the kind of life my parents have in mind for me. I don’t want to live in the suburbs and work a regular job.”

“So you want an unconventional life.”

I nodded. “My parents want me to be a lawyer or a banker. But I want to be a writer, I think, and to travel.” Even though I hadn’t yet grappled with being gay, I already knew that part of my life would be different too.

“If that’s who you want to be, then I think that’s who you should be,” Phil said.

Hearing that meant the world to me.

Better still, Phil soon got me to try all kinds of things I knew my parents would hate: riding a motorcycle, body surfing, and even shooting a gun. Honestly, they scared me too, but I figured I needed to at least try them.

Before long, I began to think I could do anything — even become a writer.

Thanks in part to Phil, I wound up with exactly the unconventional life I’d always dreamed about.

The secret to happiness is grace, gratitude, and “get on with it.”

Harry, Brent’s dad and my father-in-law, was a remarkable man in many ways, but what I especially loved was what I call his three “Gs”: his grace, gratitude, and ability to just get on with things.

Every year, we ate Christmas dinner at a family friend’s house. And every year, the dinner included an eclectic group of people. Unfortunately, one year that included a couple with some regressive political views — specifically, about lazy immigrants and ungrateful Black South Africans.

At first, Harry tried to steer the conversation to safer waters. When that didn’t work, he gently pushed back. When the offending couple still wouldn’t let it go, rather than start an argument that would ruin the event, Harry simply said to our hosts, “Thank you for a lovely meal — I’m afraid it’s now time for me to go.”

What could have turned into a very ugly dinner became a story we all laughed about on following Christmases — none of which the offending couple was invited to.

Harry also always expressed gratitude for his life. On one hand, he lived a great one, but he also had his share of setbacks: being pushed out of a law firm he co-founded and a wife who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s.

But he was never bitter.

Even after COVID kept him almost completely isolated for two years, and physical infirmities kept him confined to a wheelchair, he would still greet us by saying, “I am such a lucky man! Every morning, I get to have a great cup of coffee.”

Harry was also a member of the Greatest Generation, and while he would never say it about himself, he truly embodied the “get on with it” attitude that was their hallmark.

That included when his wife came down with Alzheimer’s. Ironically, he was the first person she stopped recognizing — and she never recognized him again.

For years, he took care of her anyway, always without complaint. And then, when that became impossible, he found a wonderful facility for her.

Of course, he visited her every day. And she would often say to Brent and me, who she still did recognize, “Who is that man who visits me every day? He sure is nice.”

He sure was.

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Walter, Phil, and Harry all shared a quality that might have been the most important lesson of all:

A real man isn’t about being tough or physically strong. It’s about being kind.

It’s easy to throw a punch. It’s much harder to be gentle. Gentle words have more power than angry ones, and a gentle touch requires more strength than a hard-thrown punch.

Walter, Phil, and Harry are all gone now. So today there are no cards or phone calls because there’s no one left to send them to.

But I mark Father’s Day anyway, grateful that I was lucky enough to have known these three extraordinary men worth celebrating.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

If Angkor Wat — Cambodia’s fantastic ancient temple complex — were in Europe, it would be one of the most famous, most celebrated places in the world.

That’s what we thought in 2023 when we visited Siem Reap, the city closest to the ruins.

Our visit exceeded our expectations in every way. We loved everything about the area: not just the ruins, but also the terrific food, the beautiful scenery, and the friendly people.

But Cambodia is not a rich country, with millions near or in poverty. The economy depends heavily on foreign tourism.

“Tourism is the main industry here in Siem Reap,” says Sophea Ting, the officially registered guide and expert we hired before visiting Angkor Wat. “We can’t afford to lose tourism here — tens of thousands would have no jobs.”

Unfortunately, Cambodia is currently seeing a massive drop in visitors: down 44% from last year at this time. Ticket sales to the Angkor Wat temple complex are down 32%.

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The drop is mostly due to the ongoing border conflict with neighboring Thailand, which last year led to a series of military skirmishes.

A rise in airfares due to the Iranian War is also discouraging visitors.

Finally, Cambodia has acquired a very bad reputation in Vietnam and China, which have accounted for 37% of its foreign visitors. International syndicates have trafficked some residents of these countries, forcing them to work in cyber-scam compounds in Cambodia. Both Vietnam and China are now discouraging citizens from visiting.

All that said, for Western tourists, most of the country is still very safe. Tensions with Thailand remain, and the land border is still closed, but there has now been a cease-fire for five months.

The U.S. State Department currently rates travel to most of Cambodia as Level 2 on a four-point scale, meaning: “Exercise increased caution.”

(But please note that anything within 50 kilometers of the Thailand border is rated Level 4: “Do not travel.” Many travel insurance companies void coverage on travel to such areas, and this could even apply to travel anywhere in Cambodia, depending on your policy.)

“Our government is doing everything it can to make sure tourists can wander around safely,” says Ting, pointing out that daily life in Siem Reap continued normally before, during, and after the conflict. “My kids still go to their classes, and my wife teaches in the public school. Hotels and restaurants are open. Tourists who were on tours with me had no problem — they just enjoyed the temples and flew home safely.”

Besides, he says, “The border is around 150 miles from the temples. This is not a war to invade lands and target civilians. It is a conflict over our 800-kilometer-long border.”

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“Thailand has nothing to gain by bombing Siem Reap,” says travel writer James Clark, who specializes in Southeast Asia. “Indeed, doing so would be hugely controversial.”

Angkor Wat is technically just one main temple complex, although many people also use the name to refer to the entire Angkor Wat Archaeological Park — the site of the former city of Angkor and home to dozens of other ruined temples. They were built by the Khmer Empire, which flourished from the 9th to the 15th centuries AD.

The area is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Clark says, and damaging it would result in worldwide condemnation.

Such an attack would also seriously damage Thailand's tourism, which is already down, though not nearly as sharply as in Cambodia.

There’s another reason why Thailand will almost certainly never target Angkor Wat or Siem Reap: antiquities.

“Thailand was, for decades — and some would say still is — the primary international clearinghouse for relics looted from Cambodia,” says Stuart McDonald of the Travelfish travel newsletter, which also covers Southeast Asia.

His advice to potential travelers? “Don’t worry.”

Meanwhile, recent visitors report no problems whatsoever.

“I never felt unsafe,” says Marcus Benecke, who just returned from the country. “The people were amazingly friendly and genuine, the food is incredible, and for us, everything seemed to be really cheap and affordable.”

“Overall, we felt safe and sad for the major hit on the economy there,” says Kathy Ray, who visited just weeks after the December cease-fire was announced. “Our registered guide at Angkor Wat said he was lucky to still have his job, since so many had to be let go due to the lack of visitors.”

“It seemed very safe,” agrees Heather Hamel-Velascor, who also visited this year. “Smaller crowds make the sites very accessible, so it could be a great time to go.”

In 2023, even after spending years in other Southeast Asian countries, we were shocked by how affordable Cambodia is.

When we visited, we stayed in a full suite in a lovely hotel with possibly the best breakfast buffet we’ve ever had — all for $42 USD per night, including tax.

As of June 1, 2026, rooms at the same hotel are available for as little as $28.

We hired our guide, Sophea Ting, for three days. This included a driver and an air-conditioned van, for a total cost of $370 (and this included some more expensive backcountry exploration).

I also spent one day touring and photographing the Angkor Wat Temple Complex on my own. For that, the going rate for a tuk-tuk driver was $25 for the entire day.

(We generously tipped all our guides!)

Here’s a breakdown of costs for budget, mid-range, and luxury travel in Cambodia:

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The greater Angkor Wat Archaeological Park is an astounding 400 square kilometers in size, and during our visit, we made a point of visiting many of the more remote temples, which required a fair bit of driving — and were often buried deep in dense jungle.

And in the end, while we were impressed by the famous main temple, we loved these other temples even more.

Since we were in the area, we also visited Tonlé Sap, Cambodia’s vast central lake, and the “floating village” of Kampong Phluk.

Shortly after our visit to Siem Reap in 2023, Cambodia opened a new international airport. Unfortunately, it’s much farther out of town — up to an hour depending on traffic.

You used to be able to take a simple tuk-tuk into town, but that’s no longer a good option. Whichever transport option you choose, it’s best to research it — and perhaps book it — before arrival:

We never made it to Cambodia’s largest city, Phnom Penh, or the coastal area with its offshore islands, but we’ve heard good things about both areas, and definitely plan to visit them eventually.

(Phnom Penh, unlike Siem Reap, has a reputation for petty crime.)

Keep in mind that most Western travelers enter Cambodia by air, but the land borders between Thailand and Cambodia remain closed.

Meanwhile, check out visa requirements here.

We think that this is currently a fantastic time to visit Cambodia. With one visit, you can accomplish two important goals:

You can see some of the most amazing places and sites the two of us have ever visited.

And you can help a group of lovely people who could really use the business.

We highly recommend our local guide, Sophea, who can be reached via WhatsApp at +855 12 501 377. His rates start at $50 a day, but he also offers more extensive packages.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

A freakin’ mosh pit! That’s what the seaside town of Split, Croatia, was like when we first visited in the summer of 2019.

It was beautiful, sure, but the crowds were so insane that we felt like slices of local pršut ham crammed into a baguette.

We’d come just for a day to visit two friends, Gillian and Tyler (and to meet Tyler’s new partner, Kris), and it really was wonderful to see them.

But afterward, we said, “This place is awful! We’re never coming back here again!”

And yet, a few years later, in 2021, we’d run out of time in the Schengen Zone — the 29 European countries that all share a common border and operate under a common visa policy — and we needed someplace outside the Schengen to hole up for the winter.

Croatia was not yet part of the Schengen — it joined in 2023 — and Brent and I were already in the general area. We’d heard the crowds were much lighter in winter, and when we checked weather forecasts and the cost of living, it seemed like a good option.

We booked for a single month to see what we thought — and ended up extending to stay for the full 90 days of our visa.

In other words — as you can guess by our headline — we loved it.

What a difference the season — and lack of crowds — made.

You might even say that Split has a “split personality”!

And it’s puns like that that have made us your favorite travel writers, right?

RIGHT?!

How about a little history?

Split, with a population of 152,000 — or 310,000 in the greater metro area — is Croatia’s second-largest city after Zagreb, the capital.

Split was founded in the late 3rd or early 2nd century BC by Greek colonists. Shortly thereafter, it was taken over by the Romans, and it became a forgotten backwater for nearly 400 years.

Then in 295 AD, Emperor Diocletian decided to build his retirement villa there — and Diocletian’s Palace is still the fantastic centerpiece of this amazing little city.

After the fall of Rome, Split got passed around like a football in a World Cup series played by barbarians, Slavs, Hungarians, Ottomans, Venetians, and Austrians.

And there was more tussling after the collapse of Yugoslavia in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Serbian forces, determined to maintain control of the city, sailed into the harbor and began shelling it.

But thanks to a surprisingly robust defense by Croatian forces, the Serbian Navy was driven away, sparing most of Split from devastation and securing Croatian independence.

Now Split is too busy — at least in summer.

If you’ve visited any of Western Europe’s most famous places in summer recently, you know that crowds can make even the most gorgeous places unbearable.

But in winter, Split was empty. We had the city almost entirely to ourselves.

Sure, some restaurants were closed, but there were still plenty to choose from, and we never had a wait. Prices were better too.

And the local farmers’ market was as large and vibrant as ever — just without gawking cruise ship passengers.

I especially loved the city’s narrow streets — many too narrow for most vehicles (except for specially designed tiny garbage trucks, and even they need deft handling by the drivers).

It was easy to feel like we’d gone back in time.

Then there was the Riva, Split’s world-class promenade. Here’s what it looked like in summer:

In winter? Photos barely do it justice:

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Much of the old town is inside the emperor’s villa.

I mentioned Diocletian’s Palace before? It was so large that the eastern half of Split’s Old Town is inside the walls of the former villa’s grounds.

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A lot of my American friends now have kids who are adults themselves, and one of these empty-nesters recently said to me, “I don’t expect my kids to take care of me when I’m older. I don’t want to be a burden!”

Not long after, another friend with kids said something similar, even using the same phrase: “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Since then, virtually every one of my American friends who has kids has said the same thing using that exact phrase.

On one hand, I think this is a noble sentiment. It’s good to consider the impact you’re having on those around you.

And I’m especially impressed by my friends who are taking steps to make themselves as healthy and financially independent as possible, reducing the likelihood of actually being a burden on their kids.

Also, many of my friends are reacting to the fact that taking care of their own aging parents was often really hard. I get that.

On the other hand, I think kids ABSOLUTELY HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY TO TAKE CARE OF THEIR AGING PARENTS!

How’s that for a spicy take?

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You might think this is just something they’re saying — like when someone at a dinner party is having chest pains, and they say, “Don’t mind me — I don’t want to spoil your party.”

And you, of course, don’t say, “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Would anyone like more Lobster Thermidor? And Gwyneth, may I top up your wine?”

Instead, you say to your friend, “Are you okay?” Then you turn to the closest other guest and say, “Timothée, call 9-1-1!”

Both sides are trying to be considerate, but one side is immediately overruled because they’re vulnerable and in need.

Likewise, no one says about kids: “That three-year-old with a respiratory infection really shouldn’t be so much of a burden on her parents!”

No, kids are expected to be burdens. They’re kids!

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Well, guess what? At some point, the trajectory of life reverses itself, and old people need help too. The older they get, the more of a “burden” they become.

The problem is, my friends are saying, “I don’t want to be a burden!” so often and so forcefully that they’re acting like they really don’t want their kids to take care of them.

It’s like they’re trying to create a new ethos in which kids don’t have any real responsibility in this area.

I think this is a biiiiiig mistake.

Elderly folks absolutely need someone younger looking out for them. Having taken care of multiple aging parents, I can say there’s simply no substitute for an emotionally invested caregiver.

It doesn’t have to be an old person’s own kid doing the caring, but it has to be someone. But if not the kid, then who? I mean, we all agree it’s a burden, right?

This take I keep hearing from my friends also strikes me as so quintessentially American: that the most important thing in life is the individual’s wants and needs, with much less concern for the big picture.

If they did look at the big picture, they’d see that we’re all better off when we consider everyone’s wants and needs together.

In fact, in these conversations I’ve had with my friends who have kids, some have also admitted, “I don’t think my kids will take care of me. Maybe I did too good a job teaching them to be independent.”

Yes, that’s the problem: you were too good a parent.

After traveling the world for nine years, I’ve seen that it isn’t like this in most other cultures. One Italian friend made us smile — and also drove us a little crazy — because he was constantly checking in on his elderly parents.

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Look, I have no dog in this fight. I don’t have kids, and while my parents are both dead now, I did help take care of them, including my mom, who had early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

Hopefully, karma will reward me, and when I’m older, there’ll be someone younger to look out for me too. But who knows?

I do know helping to care for my parents was often frustrating and exhausting — and also sometimes profound and incredible.

It was sometimes a burden. But it was also sometimes a great privilege.

I think I’d be less of a person if I hadn’t experienced it — and frankly, much less prepared for my own death when my time comes.

Of course, there are caveats and exceptions to a kid’s responsibility to their parents: serious abuse, total parental irresponsibility, conflicting life-obligations — things like that.

And I was lucky in that my parents had the resources to provide for a lot of their own care.

But in general, when I was helping my parents, it seemed very clear that this is the way things have always worked.

It’s also the way I think they always should work.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

Forty years ago, my parents bought a timeshare condo in a complex on a Puget Sound beach. I came up here a lot when I was younger, and when my parents died, I inherited the place.

Nine years ago, Michael and I left America to travel the world as digital nomads, but whenever we return to America, we stay in the condo.

This year, we’ve rented extra time, and Michael and I will be in different units through the summer and fall, about six months total.

And the whole setup has worked out perfectly for us.

I know timeshare developments have a bad reputation, but I think this one predated all the scams. Anyway, this one has long been fully independent and controlled by owners like myself.

The units are a bit dated, but they’re comfortable, and they give us space to host overnight guests. Plus, the complex has a gym and hot tub, a fantastic beach, and a friendly, unassuming vibe.

Our timeshare unit has become our “home base” — the closest thing we have to a permanent home.

And part of the reason why it’s worked out so well for us is the manager of the complex, Brenda, who has run this place for twenty-seven years.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to know Brenda well. We always share friendly chatter: life updates, restaurant recommendations, and local gossip.

And boy, has she been helpful in scheduling our various stays here, arranging different units if need be and juggling housekeeping schedules to make any transfers between units as seamless as possible. If we’re ever arriving late, she even leaves the door to our unit unlocked.

I like to think I’ve made her job easier too, being as responsible and accommodating as possible. I’m always careful to never presume anything, and to occasionally check in with her to make sure I’m never asking too much. But she always laughs and says she’s just doing her job, that she’s happy to help.

Of course, I also acknowledge her kindness with occasional gifts.

Last week, Brenda retired.

I’ve since met Brenda’s replacement, and I’m sure she will also do a wonderful job. The complex is very old school and extremely sleepy, and I fervently hope things continue exactly the way they’ve been for as long as I’ve been coming up here.

But given the direction of the rest of America, I can’t help but wonder: what if things did change?

What if they replaced Brenda with an automated check-in kiosk?

On the one hand, it could make things more efficient. Policies would be strictly enforced. And maybe this would save money, although the price is already shockingly affordable compared to anything else in Washington State.

But it would also ruin almost everything that makes this place so special. And it would make Michael’s and my life a lot more difficult.

It would turn this warm, people-centered community into a series of anonymous transactions. If I sensed no loyalty to me, I’d probably be a lot less loyal to it.

Even if this condo complex never changes, I do worry that America has already changed, dramatically, over the last forty years.

Over and over again, “Brenda” has been replaced with the “automated kiosk.”

And I don’t just mean the literal kiosks like at Starbucks or McDonalds. When it comes to business transactions, long-term personal relationships have mostly been replaced by some kind of corporate machine.

This has been terrific for companies’ bottom lines. But it’s been terrible for the broader community and overall quality of life.

There’s even a term for the phenomenon: the Annoyance Economy.

This describes how so much of the modern world has become so incredibly frustrating: hours spent on hold trying to reach someone in customer service, endless legalese and unreadable fine print, convoluted cancellation policies, byzantine appeals processes, outdated regulations, and never-ending scams, both legal and otherwise — not to mention all those hidden fees and surprise surcharges.

In short, if you’re going to make me download the app, can you at least make sure the damn thing works?

The Annoyance Economy costs Americans — very conservatively — $165 billion a year in wasted time and money.

And I haven’t even mentioned the emotional costs.

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Nice try, Seattle. You’re a sly dog, aren’t you?

You know that Brent and I used to live here, and that once upon a time, I was madly in love with you. Which is why, during our most recent visit to the city, you really pulled out all the stops trying to lure me back.

You came striding out of Puget Sound sporting James Bond swim trunks, flashing your glistening pecs, and looking as seductive as I’ve ever seen you.

Brent wasn’t fooled. Me, though? I confess, you caught my eye just like you did all those years ago when we first met.

Even though Brent and I visited in the first week of May — when the highs should be in the mid-60s with plenty of clouds and a fair bit of drizzle — you dazzled us with clear, sunny skies and temperatures in the low 80s.

And yes, I know your nickname is the Emerald City, but you were even greener than usual, weren’t you? I saw Washington State’s famous evergreens everywhere we turned. The deciduous trees had leafed out too, their branches glowing in the spring sunlight.

And there were so. Many. Damn. Flowers. It looked like someone had tossed colorful confetti all over the city.

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And all the water! And the mountains!

With those impossibly clear skies, I could see the granddaddy of them all, Mount Rainier, standing guard in the distance, watching over the city like a benevolent god.

We even had a lovely evening picnic along the shores of Lake Washington.

In early May!

Look, I appreciate all the work you’ve done on yourself: the remodeled Space Needle, the expanded Pike Place Market, the Chihuly Glass Museum.

You’ve obviously been working out. Downtown is looking pretty fit. There was almost no sign of the damage Covid did to you.

You had other work done too, didn’t you? The redeveloped waterfront area looks amazing. Removing that hideously ugly elevated highway might have been painful, but now that the swelling has gone down, it was worth it.

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I’ll admit it: I was tempted to get back together with you.

But I still love Brent, and we have no interest in being in a “throuple” — at least not with you.

For one thing, Seattle, you still have baggage. We left you, and the United States, in part because of your in-laws — especially your toxic president.

Yes, we know it’s not fair to blame you for that — only eight percent of Seattle voters supported Trump in 2016 and 2020. But even you have to admit that he’s worse than ever.

That aside, when we broke up, it wasn’t me. It was you.

It was so much you.

Because while I’m glad you’ve worked on yourself, you were also lying to me when we met in that week in May, weren’t you?

You haven’t really changed. You can’t change, at least not in the ways I would need you to.

You think I don’t remember the summer of 2017? That’s when all Seattleites were forced to accept you now had a new season: “smoke season” — from all the forest fires in the Cascades and Canada.

Week after week, a yellow haze cloaked the city, making it hard to breathe and leaving everything feeling vaguely post-apocalyptic.

Yes, yes, again, this isn’t your fault — you’re incredibly health-conscious. But you won’t — or maybe can’t — leave your neighbors who now often smoke like chimneys all summer long.

And what about the rain? Remember that last winter we spent together, also in 2017? Almost 45 inches fell! By March, Seattle had already received more than its average rainfall for an entire year.

In one 206-day period, there were only five dry days.

Five!

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Sure, if we got back together now, there would be more beautiful summer days — at least when the forest fires aren’t burning.

But come November, we both know you’d treat me like the Count of Monte Cristo and toss me into your cold, damp, wet dungeon where, in an ordinary year, I wouldn’t see the sun until July.

I admit it: you looked great during our visit, but the longer we stayed, the more it became clear what else you were hiding under those sexy blue swim trunks.

• Truly insane housing prices, with median home prices now well over $900,000. The rest of the cost of living is just as bonkers.

• Social problems like record homelessness, a drug crisis, and petty crime.

• And the traffic! The day we left Seattle, I-5 was so jammed that it took nearly an hour to go five miles.

So nice try, Seattle. I’m not falling for your old tricks.

But, well, since you’re obviously making such a big effort, I could sneak away from Brent for a bit and pop over for the Fourth of July…

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

A friend had mentioned a town called Sibiu, and we decided to give it a try.

But we knew less about this place than usual. I’d seen pictures of some great medieval town squares, and apparently, many of the buildings were famous for their strange dormer windows on sloped rooftops that look like “eyes.”

And Brent was excited because it was in the part of Romania known as Transylvania, and he’s a big dork.

Sibiu has long been a favorite destination for Europeans, especially from nearby countries. But it’s much less well-known to Americans. In fact, in 2024, only 115,000 Americans visited all of Romania.

Spoiler alert: we absolutely fell in love with the place, especially how walkable it is.

Here are all the reasons we loved it:

A fascinating history

As Brent noted, Sibiu is in Romania’s Transylvania region, which is, yes, famous for vampires.

And that’s the last time you’ll read that word in this article. We now think it’s the least interesting part about this area of the world — and the people who live here are really sick of that connection too.

The Romans established a fort in the area in the 1st century BC. Transylvania was never a “country” in the modern sense, but rather a semi-independent “principality.” That said, it definitely had — and has — a strong regional culture.

A big part of that culture developed in the 12th century, when the King of Hungary, who ruled the area, invited German-speaking settlers — then known as Saxons — to help protect and develop the region.

The invitation worked, and for hundreds of years, Sibiu — and nearby Brașov and Sighișoara — had a majority-German population that spoke German and identified much more with Germany than with the country in which they lived.

Sibiu still bears a strong German influence, including Lutheran churches, a distinctly medieval German town layout, and Germanic fortifications.

But there aren’t many Germans living in Sibiu now. That’s because after WWII, when Romania fell under Soviet control, many were shipped off to the Soviet Union for, er, slavery. The rest were severely discriminated against.

Germany later paid for some ethnic Germans to move back to Germany. And when communism collapsed in 1989, almost all of the remaining Germans fled the country.

So a city that had once been 70% German — with a peak of 25,000 German residents — has fewer than 1,000 remaining.

But there are plenty of German tourists. In fact, local restaurants are just as likely to have German menus as English ones.

The buildings all have “eyes”

After the German influence, Sibiu may be best known for an architectural quirk on many of its buildings: dormer windows that look like eyes.

In fact, the city has a nickname: the City With Eyes.

And almost everywhere you are in the city, it feels like you’re being watched.

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It’s caused, of course, by America’s war with Iran and the subsequent closing of the Strait of Hormuz, which is used to transport a significant portion of the world’s oil and natural gas.

The price of gasoline has risen between 30% and 50%, depending on where you are in the world. Airfares have risen as much as 40%, depending on the length of the trip. And the cost of electricity and natural gas is exploding, in some cases more than doubling.

As a result, many people are suffering, especially in poorer countries. If the war continues much longer, the world may slip into a global recession, and this too will hit poorer countries — and poorer folks in rich countries — the hardest.

Suffering is always bad — I’d never minimize that.

The Iranian government was and is a malevolent force in the world, but the war was poorly conceived and may ironically end up making them stronger. Unless there is a dramatic turnaround, it would have been far better if the war had never happened.

That said, the world is a complicated place, and almost nothing is ever completely black and white.

We’re a travel newsletter, so here are some ways that skyrocketing energy costs could help travelers — and also the world at large.

It could provide relief to overtouristed locations and degraded ecosystems.

The world currently faces a major problem with overtourism, which occurs when a destination receives more visitors than it can sustainably support without negatively affecting locals, the environment, and even the visitors themselves.

Four years ago, when Michael and I visited Rome in November, we were shocked by the crowds — until a restaurateur told us, sadly, that the city no longer has a “low” season. And when we returned the following summer, we were stunned again to see just how insanely crowded the high season now is.

Likewise, we’re also often saddened by how degraded the environment seems in popular tourist destinations. Don’t get me started on coral reefs.

Over the last few decades, worldwide tourist rates have exploded, more than doubling since 2000. This is partly due to rising disposable income, especially in America, but it’s also the result of cheap airfares, which in 2025 were almost half of what they were in 1985 (when adjusted for inflation).

A return to higher airfares could finally start to reduce overtourism.

This could be a good thing for overwhelmed communities and degraded ecosystems. As with COVID, it could be a kind of “reset.”

But this is definitely a be-careful-what-you-wish-for situation, because many local economies are now very dependent on tourist dollars. If tourism slows, these communities could turn to industries that are even more harmful to locals and the environment.

Likewise, wealthy folks have always traveled for leisure — and always will. If airfares continue to rise, the people forced to cut back on travel will be those who were never able to afford leisure travel before the last few decades: the poor and the middle class.

It may finally cause the undoing of Donald Trump.

Regular readers know I think Donald Trump has been a toxic force in America and the world, undermining democracy, the rule of law, the liberal world order, and basic human decency.

I’m also one of those folks who has a hard time understanding the strong allegiance of his most faithful followers.

But if recent polls are any indication, that loyalty may finally be faltering. Better still, Trump’s party is up for reelection this November.

I confess that it frustrates me that many Americans were apparently fine with Trump’s corruption and lawlessness, the incredible cruelty, and all the rest — but now that the cost of gas is going up, these same folks are losing their shit.

But hey, a win is a win. And a loss for him and his party would make the whole world much better off.

It could hasten the switch to renewable energy sources.

When it comes to energy prices, environmental costs are rarely factored in. That’s because governments almost always prioritize short-term political and economic gains over long-term or “hidden” costs.

Climate change is already driving up insurance costs and increasing the frequency of expensive natural disasters. It could cost the world an eye-popping $38 trillion per year by 2049.

But when it comes to hurting the planet, not every government is equally bad.

When Trump took office as President of the United States for a second time, he embarked on an extremely regressive platform of heavily subsidizing harmful fossil fuels and essentially declaring war on renewable “clean” energy sources like wind and solar. He also dramatically rolled back environmental protections.

So it’s incredibly ironic — and kind of satisfying in a “schadenfreude” way — that the rising fossil fuel prices resulting from Trump’s war with Iran may actually end up reducing carbon emissions and increasing the speed with which the world transitions to renewable energy sources.

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It could cause folks to rediscover their own communities.

Michael and I recently explained how we’re spending the next six months in the Seattle area, our home before we became digital nomads. It’s partly because of the international chaos, but mostly due to preexisting plans.

And we’ve been delighted to revisit favorite local destinations and even discover new things about this area that we’d never known before.

If airfares and gasoline prices stay high, expect local folks to discover the same thing all over the world.

It could provoke urban improvements that will make cities much more livable, especially in America.

I confess it’s a pet peeve of mine when Americans travel internationally and say, “These cities are so charming and walkable! Why can’t we have this in America?”

I always think: You could! But you — and your government and your captains of industry — are just choosing something very different.

When fossil fuels are heavily subsidized by the American government, people choose big houses, big cars, and an automobile-based lifestyle.

Why not? They’re not paying the actual costs.

But when fuel prices rise, the economic incentives change, and a car-based lifestyle becomes much less desirable. As a result, interest in all the things that make cities so much more “livable” outside America also rises: mixed-use neighborhoods, walkability, bike infrastructure, and safe, efficient public transportation.

As an added bonus, walkable, mixed-use cities also promote social cohesion, which I think we can all agree America really, really needs right now.

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And it could provide some incredible travel bargains, especially for slow travelers.

Experts predict that airfares aren’t going down anytime soon. For the time being, consumers have continued to book expensive airline seats anyway.

But if the world economy slips into recession, it could result in an unusual situation: plunging demand at many tourist destinations but continued high airfares.

This means many travel expenses other than airfares would fall — especially for businesses that take some time to transition to other sectors, like lodging.

For short-term leisure travelers, this might still mean higher overall costs.

But for nomads or long-term travelers — especially “slomads” like Michael and me — the savings could be considerable.

For Americans, the situation is complicated by the fact that anti-American sentiment is also dramatically rising around the world. If the United States really does cause a global recession, I predict things would get very ugly very fast.

To be clear, rising energy costs are not a “mixed bag” situation. So far, the Iranian war has been an outright disaster for the world, creating a humanitarian crisis and an economic shock that is creating regional and international instability. And it’s almost certainly strengthened America’s biggest rival, China, and its ruthless dictator, Xi Jinping.

Still, history never moves in a straight line. Even disasters can reshape the world in ways no one intended.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book below.

Eighteen years ago, my mom died unexpectedly at the age of sixty-two — the same age I am now. As of a few months ago, I’m officially older than she ever was.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Not: Oh my god, I’m going to die one day! More: Well, this is a strange milestone.

I’ve always been aware of my mortality, but now that I’m in my sixties, it’s a lot less theoretical.

Recently, a Substack article took the world of expats and retirees by storm: “Your 12 Good Years.”

The premise was simple: if you’re in your early sixties and healthy, you likely have about twelve more years where you can take on new challenges, be spontaneous, live independently, and, yes, easily travel.

After that, physical and mental deterioration will almost certainly slow you down.

I’m well aware that my time on Earth is finite, but having a number, no matter how arbitrary, assigned to my remaining “good” years was jarring.

And how exactly will this affect my life of travel? For the last nine years, I’ve been a digital nomad, continuously traveling the world with my husband, Brent.

Brent and I are still fit and active, but I already see hints of what’s to come. My left knee complains more than it used to. My lower back wakes up most mornings very cranky.

In my seventies, transoceanic flights will almost certainly be harder, bad beds more challenging, and climbing Machu Picchu probably ain’t happening, even if my spirit is willing.

Sadly, in the last year, illness has struck some of our closest friends, so the future is even less theoretical now.

Which brings up a related issue: when it does happen — when we do have to start dealing with serious health issues — we don’t want to be on our own in dealing with them.

Our sick friends have all had fantastic support systems — both friends and family.

But Brent and I are childless. And while we have lots of friends, many of them are spread all over the world.

If we got sick now, our support system would be: It’s complicated.

So if we don’t put down roots soon, will it eventually be too late?

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On the one hand, we don’t need to keep traveling. We’ve been on the road for almost a decade, and it’s been incredible. Maybe asking for twelve more years of travel is getting greedy.

On the other hand, we really love our current life. We both agree that becoming nomadic was the best decision we ever made.

In nomad circles, older folks talk about these issues a lot. Some people insist they’ll travel until health issues force them to stop. Then they’ll find a country where they can join an expat community and settle down for the last time.

There’s a grim term some folks use for this place: a “death destination.”

Brent says it’s naive to think you can wait until you have a serious health problem to settle down — and after watching our friends deal with major health issues this year, I agree with him.

If you’re dealing with a major health issue, the last thing in the world you’d want to do — or even have the energy for — is also figure out the process of emigrating to another country, much less finding a permanent apartment and, oh yeah, integrating into a foreign culture.

Other older nomads say that when the time comes, they’ll return home. And if they have children and a strong, existing support network, this seems like a much more reasonable option.

But without kids, Brent and I would have to rely on friends — and even our old circle of friends back in the Seattle area is spread out all over Puget Sound.

So if we really do want a supportive community for when we’re older, we need to start building one relatively soon.

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See the problem? We want two incompatible things: to keep traveling as long as we can, and to ensure we’re not alone and vulnerable when we can’t.

If I were on my own, I think I’d risk a harder ending to avoid giving up years of a life I love. But Brent disagrees. He wants to start putting down roots soon, so we’re not trying to frantically build a support system at the exact moment we need one.

We have options, but they all come with a cost.

We could return to the Pacific Northwest for at least part of the year, to develop that support network. And when the time came, we would move back here full-time. We’d be in a familiar culture, and we’d also have access to Medicare.

But we’d also be moving back to America, which would mean being totally dependent on a car again, and giving up the more people-centered communities we’ve both grown to love. Instead, we’d be stuck back in the American sprawl we both detest.

We’d also take another hit on the quality of life issue due to the “affordability” issue, since almost anywhere in the world seems a lot cheaper than America right now.

Brent is very interested in building some kind of “intentional” community with existing friends, which would at least partly improve our quality of life.

But our friends have competing interests too — in the form of kids, grandkids, weather, and their own affordability issues.

And, of course, we think it’s still an open question whether America collapses completely into fascism.

The other option is for us to permanently settle somewhere outside the U.S. — Mexico or Europe but also maybe Thailand — and try to build a life among the locals and expats.

I’m more drawn to this, but Brent argues that it would essentially mean severing our existing friendships back home. After all, how often would we see them? Once a year for a week until we become too old to travel at all?

Plus, he says, we’d have to navigate foreign cultures and bureaucracies at an age when that becomes increasingly difficult to do. So if this is our choice, we’d have to start sooner rather than later.

Unfortunately, trying to permanently settle in another country almost always includes some kind of “residency” requirement — often at least ten months out of every year. So we’d be in a foreign country, true, but we’d also have to stop nomading.

At least the U.S. gives us the option to be there only part-time. We could live there for four or five months and travel the rest of the year.

Every path comes with drawbacks and complications — and both mean we won’t be traveling full-time for all that much longer.

Then again, we’re trying to balance two competing truths: that our immediate phase of life is still full of possibility and shouldn’t be wasted, but that the future version of ourselves will depend on us making choices now that keep them safe.

Most likely, it will be the “part-time in America” option that we’re doing this year.

After all, twelve more years of this wouldn’t exactly be terrible.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

One more edition of our unusual travel hacks.

For other travel hack columns, go to Part Fifteen and Part Sixteen and Part Seventeen and Part Eighteen and Part Nineteen and Part Twenty and Part Twenty-One and Part Twenty-Two and Part Twenty-Three and Part Twenty-Four and Part Twenty-Five and Part Twenty-Six and Part Twenty-Seven and Part Twenty-Eight and Part Twenty-Nine and Part Thirty and Part Thirty-One and Part Thirty-Two.

Onto the latest hacks!

Actually contact Booking.com

Booking.com is a frustrating platform: they have a fantastic number of listings, including the indie or “boutique” properties we most enjoy, and they also have some really great prices and perks — especially if you’re a “Genius 3” loyalty member (which you get after using the platform fifteen times). But their customer support is terrible: it’s impossible to speak to an actual person, and they almost never side with the customer anyway.

But know this: when you do become Genius 3, you are given access to “priority support,” which means you can talk to an actual human being. Even better, we think they’re much more likely to resolve a dispute in your favor.

Their priority support number is: 1-888-850-3958 (U.S.). (The UK support number is +44 20 3320 2609, but you don’t need to be Genius 3 to access it.)

Get 20% off your total grocery bill

If you transfer a prescription to some American supermarket chains — including Safeway — they’ll give you a coupon for an impressive 20% off your next grocery bill, no matter how large.

And just because you’re “transferring” a prescription doesn’t mean you can’t then transfer it back to your original pharmacy.

Buy the best pre-cut fruits and veggies

When you buy pre-cut fruits and vegetables, the price is higher because you’re really buying convenience — and I respect that, especially when traveling.

But here are the pre-cut fruits and vegetables that I think are the best value: spinach (which is difficult to wash), carrots (to encourage healthy snacking), and especially broccoli (which, given that most people discard broccoli stems anyway, is actually twelve percent cheaper when bought in bags).

And here’s what isn’t worth it: pineapples (which spoils too fast), melons, and mixed berries.

Check out a handy chart I put together:

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When Michael and I travel, I’m always looking for bargains. I’m on record as saying that the more you have someone “hold your hand” on your trip, the more you’re going to pay — sometimes two or three times as much.

But there are risks to my approach.

When we arrived in Istanbul, Turkey, in 2021, we booked a hotel in the city center for ten days to see the city’s most famous attractions.

But my plan was that once we were there, we would look for an apartment somewhere where we could stay long-term for two more months. And by being “on the ground,” we would find a real bargain.

I posted a couple of online inquiries, and a few days later, a local man named Farouk contacted me to say he had an apartment in the Beyoğlu neighborhood, right across the Golden Horn.

He didn’t have any photos of the apartment, but I took that as a good sign, bargain-wise, because he wasn’t a slick operator used to renting to “rich” American tourists.

And the rent was five hundred U.S. dollars a month, he said — considerably less than half what it seemed like similar apartments cost.

Would we be interested in seeing the place?

I told him we would, and the following day, we took a cab to see the apartment.

But we hadn’t yet realized how truly horrendous Istanbul’s traffic is, and it took us over an hour to go a mere four kilometers.

Worse, the neighborhood was pedestrian-only, so we had to get out and wander a crazy-complicated warren of narrow streets and winding alleys before we finally found the right building.

I admit the neighborhood looked incredibly charming. The street was cobblestone, and the buildings dripped with what looked like grapevines. Even better, it was right off bustling İstiklal Avenue, a famous, pedestrian-only shopping boulevard.

But we were already forty-five minutes late for our appointment, so I mostly just wanted to find Farouk and, hopefully, still see the apartment.

We rang the buzzer on the building, and Farouk came down to see us. He was a handsome Turkish man and so well dressed that he made me self-conscious. He smelled great too.

“I am so sorry we’re late!” I said, still flushed. “We’ve only been in town three days, so we took a cab, but we didn’t know how bad the traffic would be.”

He smiled, seemingly not annoyed at all. “Yes, the traffic is terrible here, and the subway is a much better choice. But it is fine, and I am excited for you to see the apartment.”

He led us up a darkened marble staircase, the steps deeply grooved from years of use. I confess I was already in love with this grand old building, which had to have been built at least a century ago.

The apartment itself was charming too — well decorated, with a big bed. It was a studio, but big enough to include a dedicated sitting area and a dining room table.

True, it didn’t have much of a kitchen, and there was no washing machine, but the rent supposedly included a laundry service for anything we needed washed.

There was even a little balcony half-engulfed in those lovely grapevines, although up close, I could see that the grapes had only just begun to ripen.

“This is Yusuf,” Farouk said, introducing us to a young man sitting off to one side, someone I hadn’t noticed before. “His family owns the building, but he doesn’t speak English, so I’ll have to translate.”

Yusuf stood up smiling. He said something in Turkish and handed us a box of the country’s famous Turkish Delight candy.

“He says this is for you,” Farouk said.

“Oh,” I said, taking it. “Thank you very much.”

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“And what do you think of the apartment?” Farouk asked.

Michael and I looked around again — and also at each other. It was clear we both thought it was an amazing place at an incredible price.

“It’s great,” I said at last. “I think we’ll take it. Can we move in in a week?”

Farouk smiled again. “Sure.” Then Yusuf spoke, holding up a piece of paper, and Farouk said, “Yusuf has a rental agreement for you to sign.”

Farouk took the paper from Yusuf, and I took it from him. I noticed it was all in Turkish. This made sense, since the whole point of this arrangement was to deal with locals, but it still made me uneasy. What exactly were we signing?

“And Yusuf will need some kind of deposit,” Farouk went on. “To hold the apartment.”

“Deposit?” I said, even more wary. “How much?”

“Well, what do you think is fair?”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this didn’t seem unreasonable either. So I said, “How about two hundred dollars?” He had said during the online chat that he preferred to be paid in U.S. currency — that it was considered more desirable than the Turkish lira.

“That would be fine,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, realizing. “Except we didn’t bring any dollars with us.”

“You can get them from most of the nearby cash machines.”

I looked at Michael, and he shrugged.

“Okay,” I said to Farouk. “We’ll go do that.”

We left the apartment, but not necessarily to visit an ATM. Mostly, I wanted to talk everything over with Michael.

“What do you think?” I said when we were out in the street.

“What do you think?” Michael said.

I looked up at the balcony of the apartment, where Farouk had stepped out, looking down at us. He smiled and waved.

I forced out a smile and waved back.

As we walked down the street, I said to Michael, “Well, it’s a great apartment, a fantastic neighborhood, and a really good price. But… what if it’s a con?”

“You mean what if that’s not really their apartment?” Michael said.

“Yeah. They rented it for the day, or borrowed it from a friend, and we’ll come back in a week, and they’ll be gone? After all, Farouk contacted me. He wasn’t vetted in any way.”

Michael thought for a second. “I think we can trust them. If this is a con, wouldn’t they have asked for more money? The total rent in advance?”

“Well, maybe they’re trying to seem reasonable, to dupe stupid tourists like us. So they ask us how much of a deposit we want to leave. I mean, in Turkey, two hundred dollars is still a lot of money.”

“But if it’s a con to dupe tourists,” Michael said, “why would the rental agreement have been in Turkish? Farouk clearly speaks excellent English.”

This was a good point. Except maybe they were doing that to look more reasonable too. But did con artists really play 12th dimensional chess?

“We don’t have to take the apartment if you don’t want to,” Michael said. “We can just leave now, and you can text Farouk to say it wasn’t right.”

“But aren’t you suspicious at all? Farouk wasn’t even annoyed that we were forty-five minutes late. And a box of Turkish Delight? Really?”

“It is only two hundred dollars,” Michael said. “If it’s legit, we have a great apartment. And if you’re right and it’s a con, we’re not out that much money.”

This was a good point too.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Let’s get them that deposit.”

A week later, suitcases in tow, we returned to the apartment building and rang the buzzer.

No one answered.

We rang again, and still no one answered.

“I knew it!” I said. “It was a con just like I said! Now we have exactly eight hours to find somewhere else to stay.”

“If you knew it,” Michael said patiently, “why did you agree to give them the deposit?”

“Okay, I didn’t know it. But I strongly suspected.”

“Maybe they’re just late. Why don’t you call Farouk?”

I scoffed. “Like he hasn’t already blocked me. This was a con, remember?”

“Just call, okay?”

So I called.

To my surprise, Farouk picked up.

“Farouk? This is Brent. Where are you?” I was trying hard to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“At the apartment, waiting for you,” he said. “Where are you?”

I hesitated. Was this part of the con — a way to somehow extract more money from us?

“We’re standing outside,” I said. “Why didn’t you buzz us in?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

I pushed the button again. “How about now?”

“Still nothing. Hold on.” I heard something creak. “I don’t see you.”

“What do you mean? We’re right outside!”

“I’m on the balcony, and I don’t see you.”

I looked up, but I didn’t see Farouk.

I also didn’t see, um, a balcony.

Which made me realize that Michael and I had come to the wrong street. That crazy-complicated warren of narrow streets and winding alleys? Many of the streets and buildings looked similar.

“I think we’re at the wrong apartment,” I said to Farouk. “What’s the address again?”

He gave me the address, and we found the right building one block over.

We met Farouk and Yusuf, paid them the $300 we owed, and moved into the apartment.

And we loved it so much, we ended up staying two and a half months. We would have stayed longer, but our visa ran out.

We had an absolutely magical time. We moved into that apartment when the grapes on the balcony had just begun to grow, and we didn’t leave until after they’d ripened.

And oh, how sweet they were.

Both Farouk and Yusuf also lived in the building, and we got to know them well, frequently joining Farouk for tea — and once we all took a fascinating excursion to the ancient hammam in the Istanbul neighborhood where Farouk grew up.

We also got to know the other colorful residents of the building, who were all weird and different, like the characters in some classic Graham Greene novel.

As for Istanbul, we lived the hell out of that amazing city, getting to know it as intimately as you can in that short amount of time and falling deeply in love with its many charms.

In our nine years of travel, our time in that Istanbul apartment building was easily one of our best experiences ever — and also one of the greatest bargains I’ve ever found.

All that worry about our being conned by Farouk and Yusuf was for nothing — we could absolutely trust them.

Then again, I’d told Michael that from the beginning.

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Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book, below.