From Sea To Shining Sea Part 5: A Caribbean Realization

Our Place In The World

If you’ve never been hungover on a bus in a developing country, my review would be “I wouldn’t recommend it.” Weirdly, it’s not my first time, but at least this bus ride which took us over cracked and broken pavement and through miles of pitted and pocked dirt roads was only one hour long and not 18 hours long (a story for another day.) We had good reason to be here - this wasn’t just “jump on this random bus and let’s see where it takes us” - most of the group was headed to a private island resort for the day. Our plan was to spend time on the beach, drink beers and cocktails made by combining rum with fruit in various combinations, maybe swim a bit, have a bit of lunch, and continue doing more of the same until the late afternoon or early evening. The bus took us to the boats, and the boats would take us to the island. This was all part of the plan. But hungover on the bus, staring out at the horizon to feel a little better, I got hit with something I wasn’t expecting.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been around the levels of poverty you find in developing countries. I remember it from my time in Argentina, and especially when I would wander out into the more rural areas of Bolivia and Brazil. I remember whole communities scraping by with the scraps and detritus of nearby civilization. No running water. No electricity. Corrugated metal leaned against something else - a wall, a hill, or other metal - to make a home. Clothing made from discards. Food cooked with car batteries and chicken wire, or over the open flames from barrels burning whatever was flammable and unnecessary.

Conceptually, I should have known it wasn’t isolated to those countries. But it was still a shock when I looked out the window of the bus to see a donkey pulling a wooden cart full of discarded materials, and just beyond it - a town built from scraps and scrabble. It was not lost on me that I was seeing this poverty from a chartered bus taking me to a chartered boat taking me to a private island where someone would catch my lunch for me and bring me an unlimited amount of alcoholic beverages so that I could continue doing absolutely nothing. As we moved further and further from the city center, we passed by three or four of these towns scattered between the larger and more built up villages, each one built out of the desperation and necessity that comes from being cast onto the fringes of where society has forgotten you.

There’s honestly not a great segue here. If you’re expecting one then I’m going to disappoint you. Moreover, I’ve tried several times to elegantly move the narrative on from something that was objectively heartbreaking that happened while we were pursuing something that was objectively indulgent, but I’m not a good enough writer to thread that particular needle. So let’s just say that I noticed it in the moment, felt like an absolute hypocrite, also acknowledged that I was supporting dozens of other local workers with this excursion, from the fisherman to the drivers, and I don’t really know where the balance is for the responsibility of one’s actions lies; I don’t know what the “right” solution is for a situation I didn’t create and have very little power over, but was possibly participatory in perpetuating through my own choices. And thus I’m not sure how to transition from that to telling you in more detail about a nice day we spent at the beach, so I’m just going to drop the clutch and slam shift, acknowledging that it is neither a narratively nor tonally smooth transition.

Someone should let people know that The Caribbean is nice. The resort we were visiting was a cute little private island, with seaside bars, white sandy beaches, hammocks, a volleyball court, and beachside lounge chairs. Oh, and a little blue crab who wandered about waving his big claws in the air, showing everyone just how scary he was. We were all so scared. Good job, little buddy. And getting there was a bit of an event as well, with the boats taking us down what felt like streets of water and tunnels carved out of the mangroves. But once we emerged into open water, our destination was in sight just over to our right.

Wait, nope. Not that private island resort. Or that one. Or that other one. That one right there is apparently “The Party Island” (though at 10am everyone must have been sleeping off last night’s festivities.) So apparently this is “a thing” in Cartagena. But a couple dozen private island resorts later, we found ours.

The manager took us on a tour of what they’d built, proudly telling us how when - not if - we come back next year, they’ll have a hotel and a full kitchen. But for now, there’s just the island, the beach, the bar, the other bar, the third bar, the beach volleyball court, and the administration buildings. The day itself was luxuriously uncomplicated. We moved from water to sand and back again as warranted. We slept on the beach and played volleyball with the kids. We all came together for a wonderful lunch of whole fried fish, coconut rice, and plantains. The kids figured out that whole fried fish have eyes and heads and bones and decided that maybe they’ll have chicken instead.

Whole fried fish was one of the more common meals I had in Colombia, because it was frankly excellent every time. This wasn’t American-style fried fish, where a heavy batter that retains a liter of oil. This was fish that was caught earlier that day, cleaned, and then tossed whole - scales head, tail, and all - into oil until the skin turned crispy. No batter, no additional flavor beyond salt and pepper. Just fresh fish, cooked, plated, and served. And I ordered this probably four or five times throughout our week there because it was just simple and excellent. Coupled with the ever-present plantains and coconut rice (which was slightly different everywhere, but only in that it was differing shades of excellence) this was the kind of meal that was satisfying and filling without being heavy, and which allowed you to enjoy it at whatever pace felt most appropriate at the time.

In this case, lunch took slightly over fifty three days, as we all ate, drank, laughed, and joked (only occasionally at the kids’ expense) at a leisurely pace appropriate for our new island lifestyle. I ate three medium-to-large sized fish - mine, and two of the kids’ - and then we spent the remainder of the afternoon floating lazily in the gentle rocking of the Caribbean. We had no agenda, nothing to do, and no timeline upon which to do it, other than we needed to leave around 6pm. And as we rode back on the bus, I found myself pinned in by children and they peppered me with questions about quantum physics, relativity, and how space is almost unfathomably large. Seriously. Actually. It was rather fun.

I take very seriously my role as Fun Uncle (“Funcle”) Barrett. As someone who very deliberately never had kids, it’s often assumed that I don’t like kids. But the opposite is true: I love kids. And I relish my self-designated role as the weird, loud uncle that’s maybe a bit Laissez-faire with their safety. Who will swing them around by their ankles and shotput them into a pool. Who invents characters with funny faces and accompanying voices, and spends all night interacting with them as that character no matter what. Who tells outrageous stories that are obviously fantastical, and then swears by them for hours if not days. Who treats them with respect and is lets them know that no question is off limits. Who can be a grown-up or a weirdo as is necessary in that moment. Who offers them wine if they ask, and will probably let them drive his car well before it’s legal. The fun, slightly dangerous uncle that lets them “get away with” things in a safe environment that’s - secretly and unbeknownst to them - full of actual adult oversight and supervision.

This is a role I love, and it comes with a lot of trust: trust from our friends, who know that no matter how “dangerous” or weird or loud whatever Uncle Barrett’s doing, the kids are safe. And trust from the kids, who now run up to me and fling themselves bodily in my direction knowing I’ll catch them, or come to me with big questions about the universe that they might not know who else to ask.

So it was that I spent an hour on a bus in Colombia talking about stars and galaxies and photons and time dilation and singularities with two grade schoolers; and they told me about all about the things they love and fear in their worlds, big and small, from school bullies, to speech impediments, to the sun exploding and consuming the earth in several billion years.

That, to me, is the essence of Found Family. Some of these kids have never known a time without Auntie Beth and Uncle Barrett. Some were barely walking when we first met. Some met us for the first time just a few years ago, and have had to learn about these weird people their parents hang out with from time to time. None of them are under any illusions that I’m blood related to any of their parents, but if that matters to anyone involved, it’s never been shown nor discussed it. At the end of the day, I’m one of many helping them grow and learn and find their way in the world, and I’m so honored to get to play a part. Even if it’s to be “kind of a tall weird child” (thanks Hartley.)

You Only Get What You Give

The last two days in Colombia were a bit of a mishmash (fuck you spellcheck, that’s a word) for me. Call it a penchant for exploration or a willingness to try new things (or a sensitive stomach, blah fuck you I’m immortal), but I have a bad habit of getting sick on vacation. In Greece it was a wicked sinus infection that took me out on the last day. Prior to that, visiting Beth’s parents in Virginia left me hospitalized with something that quickly devolved into sepsis. Scotland I escaped without a sniffle, but Seattle gave me food poisoning to the point where we had to consider airlifting me to a hospital (and I haven’t eaten oysters since.) And then there was Paris, which shall not be spoken of other than to say that I wrote a very apologetic email to our Airbnb host and it took me a while to enjoy tartare again (but I put in the reps to get back in tip top tartare shape.)

In Colombia, there were a couple things going around in the group. Mostly uncomfortable stomach bugs, but two of our group had been battling with something almost the entire time we were there. We’d been warned that sometimes drinking the local water even in hotels could lead to some traveling illnesses, so to protect ourselves we generally we stuck to beer (Matt was determined to try one of every local beer we found and I was glad to help him in this project), or bottled water. And maybe rum. I’mma leave that there for now and move on but don’t worry - I’m going somewhere with this.

The next day we had big plans involving having a pool day, spending the day in the infinity pool, and drinking tropical drinks in the infinity pool, so our schedule was packed. Perched halfway up the hotel, this pool was split into several areas with waterfalls, multistory breaks, and an unobstructed view of the Caribbean. This thing was absolutely built for Instagram. The day was hot, the pool was slightly cooler, and thus after a very poorly thought-out morning walk to the tip of the peninsula (I wanted to explore the area and walked back into the hotel with sweat actively dripping off of the tips of my fingers, and every piece of clothing three full shades darker) I slathered myself in (Greek) sunscreen, and spent much of the afternoon seeing how far I could throw each child.

If the day had a soundtrack, it would have been fling, scream, splash, paddle paddle paddle, again! After a couple hours of this, I was ready for a cold drink. Something tropical, and destination appropriate: like a mai tai or a piña colada. Or both.

Here’s the thing about mai tais and piña coladas. They have many ingredients. But whether blended or served on the rocks, one of those ingredients is usually ice. If you’re in a tropical environment where the heat frequently reaches temperatures best described as “oppressive” then they probably involve quite a bit of ice. Ice which, even in a five star hotel, is probably not imported from the Swiss alps, but made from the local water. So if you drink three, four, five of them throughout the afternoon, it’s not much different to pouring a couple nice big glasses of water from the sink. With pineapple and coconut and rum, mind you, but the end result is similar.

The pool day ended when the lightning began, which seems fair overall. We saw the storm come in over the mountains and across the city, and as it started crossing the bay the hotel let everyone know that while many things were permitted here, remaining in the pool during a lightning storm was not one of them.

We moved under the large concrete overhang that created the outdoor patio just as the rain started crashing down, once again torrential in its fervor. We were technically outside, but also technically totally covered. We were also technically tipsy, and feeling very content and unbothered as the water poured down around us and the lightning lit up the skies. The hotel was hit a few times, the world flashing bright as a simultaneous explosion electrified the air around us. Some of the kids noticed their hair standing on end and giggled. Far from being concerned, we all ooohed and ahhhed and laughed as the temperature dropped fifteen degrees in a matter of moments and the wind kicked up, and for the first time in almost a month I felt a slight chill.

More drinks ordered, we discussed what to do for dinner. Some folks were happy to have a night in with room service, others were planning on going out (while it was still pouring out, we knew that this - like all the storms we’d witnessed here - would pass within the half hour.) Beth and I were in the latter category, and would be joined by Tracey, Molly, her mom Diana, and her daughter Riley. And it was right around when we made this decision that Beth walked right out into the downpour, raised her hands outward, joyfully threw her head back, and laughed, welcoming the darkened skies and cold rain alike. Thankfully this moment wasn’t just burned into my memory, as Diana got the most epic photo of the vacation, capturing it perfectly.

Depooled, changed, and ready to head back out, we once again took a cab into the Walled City. This obviously wasn’t the first cab we took, but it was where I started putting together some patterns. Cabs in Cartagena are almost armored against the heat. Every window is tinted so dark that you step into a temporary night just by getting inside. And the air conditioning is set at “arctic” to ward off the outside heat, so your glasses actually fog up immediately. Once inside, every cab fair is negotiable. You ask how much something will cost, and the driver sizes you up before answering. We took a dozen rides to and from roughly the same couple of areas, and every single one was a different fare. Never egregious, but it was always a fun little surprise finding out what we’d get.

In between the two destinations, every cabbie is Ayrton Senna stunt driving for a Mission Impossible chase scene, which explains the abundance of external damage visible on most cabs. This wasn’t actually new territory to me though - in Argentina I had to come to grips with a level of driving machismo that borders on comical. From driving five wide on a two lane road, to passing on the sidewalks, to not using your lights at night or stopping at red lights because those are “unmanly,” both Argentine and Colombian driving is relatively free from legal encumbrance while still being somewhat less of a contact sport than you’d expect. It’s a chaos ballet, slowed only by the stern looks of local officers (whose purpose on the road remains to me entirely unclear.) They’d fucking love Greece.

Dinner that evening was a reminder that the best restaurant choices might not be your first one. Or even your second. Or sometimes even your third. But the one that you spend 30 minutes wandering around to find, stumbling into, and then it turns out it’s exactly what you were looking for all night. It wasn’t what we’d planned for, and with other people or other groups that might have been a disaster. A little three room restaurant with a menu that’s best described as “eclectic,” we ended up ordering all manner of dishes from traditional to festive. But we also noticed a substantial rum menu and did a little impromptu rum tasting amongst ourselves. After all, when a 25 year old rum is gonna cost you five bucks, you try the rum. Leisurely, tippled, and content, it was a wonderful dinner to spend with friends.

But as lovely as dinner was, what I actually remember was just walking the streets at night with our group. It was still hot from the day, the rain still steaming off of the concrete and reflecting multicolored lights from above. Our cab had dropped us off a couple blocks away from our initial restaurant choice, and walking through the city at 8pm was absolutely electric. Bands set up on sidewalks just beyond the patio of restaurants packed tight for the evening, and diners turned their chairs towards the street to indulge in the show. People danced in the road, and moved off to the side as cars came through. Turning a corner, a whole street fair was in full swing, lights strung up between buildings to give wandering families the light to “window” shop from a dozen canvas tents. I wasn’t sad that our first restaurant choice would have been a 45 minute wait, or that our second was full for the night - I got as much out of walking the narrow, steaming, vibrant, joyful streets of Cartagena as any meal could have provided. But it ended up being just another reminder that unless you give yourself the time and space to seek and find them, and if you plan to just go from the known to the planned to the known again, you’ll miss out on some really joyful and unexpected experiences.

The next morning when I started getting uncomfortable, I went back through my mind over everything I’d drank to figure out whether I was picking up what some of the others had, or something more sinister like what happened in Virginia. Which is when I remembered the cocktails. And I called myself an idiot. So Beth had plans with J-Ma to tour the local forts, and I had plans to not leave the hotel room as much as possible. Once again I spent the final few days of my vacation wondering when this would stop, and trying to convince myself that despite the knowable ramifications of doing so, I really should drink another Gatorade to keep from actually dying. Because some traditions are apparently unavoidable.

It wasn’t all bad - I was able to find time over the next 48 hours to get back into the city, pick up some souvenirs, join Molly to go find monkeys in the park, buy coffee from what Beth was told was “the best coffee roasters in Cartagena” (spoiler: it’s the best fucking coffee I’ve ever had, on a trip where even the hotel coffee hit my lifetime top 10 list) go back through Getsemani again, pick up gifts for friends and family, and just generally indulge in what I found to be a vibrant and fun city. So don’t shed a tear for my plight - out of all the vacation illnesses I’ve had (and they are both many and varied) this one was the most manageable outside of the first 18 hours. My only real regret is that I didn’t have more time to spend just hanging out in a local cafe or juice bar, watching the world go by, and marinating in the sensory experience of the city.

Papers, Please

The trip back home was more eventful than expected. Or desired. Not knowing precisely what to expect from the trip back home, but vividly remembering the process of immigration on the way in, we arrived at the airport three hours before our flight - making it through security just minutes before it was delayed for 2 hours. The airport in Cartagena is small, so there weren’t a lot of ways to entertain ourselves for five or so hours. We had planned it so we were on the same flight back as Molly, Maria, Diana, and Riley, which meant we weren’t alone in our wait, but nonetheless the hours dragged on a bit. Maria was still feeling the effects of her illness, and Riley was under the weather too. Molly wasn’t feeling great, and I was just cresting above 50%. Generally just excellent all around.

We were the last ones from our group to leave Colombia. In the days before, our friends had sent updates on the process via the group chat. Bruce let us know that he had been pulled aside by airport security to ensure his several bricks of ground coffee weren’t several bricks of cocaine, so when Beth and I grabbed some gifts for friends, we made sure to get whole beans in order to avoid being pulled aside and searched. Therefore it makes perfect sense that after getting there the recommended 3 hours early, going through security, and being delayed another 2 hours, secondary screening waited until 15 minutes before boarding to pull Beth aside.

They called her name over the intercom, and pulled her into another room alongside fifty or so other people. We weren’t carrying anything even remotely approaching illegal, and we’d discussed how to handle a repeat of Bruce’s security situation, putting a plan together should it be required - but then I was informed that I wasn’t allowed to join, despite us traveling together. And she walked out of the boarding area and into the separate - and separated - security area alone. She sent me a few updates, letting me know when they took her passport and boarding pass from her, but then the updates stopped. And as boarding began, Beth continued to not come back out from that room.

Boarding continued, and I continued to get more and more agitated. The rest of our group boarded, and then the rest of the plane boarded, and while some of the other passengers filtered back into the gate and onto the plane, Beth still hadn’t returned. They called final boarding. And then they called the end of boarding. And then I was alone at the gate, and Beth still hadn’t returned. I hadn’t heard from her in almost twenty minutes.

Now I might have lied juuuust a little bit above when I said there was never a point when I felt unsafe in Colombia. This was that point. And it wasn’t feeling unsafe for me, but for her. She’d been pulled into a security room, her boarding pass, passport, and maybe even her phone had been taken from her, and I was getting increasingly certain that she was currently in international legal jeopardy. Now I know Beth can manage a logistically complicated scenario, but there’s a difference between navigating a train system and navigating being detained in another country. And I wasn’t going to board the plane if she was going to be left behind in South America to navigate an international criminal justice system herself.

A few moments after calling the end of boarding, I locked eyes with one of the gate agents. She gave me a curious look, and asked why I hadn’t boarded. I nearly shouted “Donde está mi esposa?!” (“Where is my wife?!”) After checking our names and sending someone back to get an update on Beth, a flurry of very apologetic Spanish ensued, whereupon they informed me that she was still here, she was fine, we’d still be boarding, and the plane wouldn’t leave until we were cleared through security.

Forty-five minutes and five lifetimes later, Beth returned from the security room, with all of her belongings and an officer in tow. This officer followed us through the gate, down the hallway, onto the runway, up the boarding stairs, and only stopped at the threshold of the plane itself. Once we were safely on the plane and away from being overheard by the officer, I asked Beth what had happened and if she was okay. She said that she was annoyed but everything was fine. - it was mostly a bunch of sitting around, and the actual security portion was quick once they got to her. Apparently the gentleman who followed us to the plane was very apologetic about having to do so.

Later, we found some scissors in her carry-on - so having gotten away with smuggling scissors into and out of Colombia, we retired from our life of international crime.

Being delayed into Miami meant we were once again bumped to a flight the next day, and once again American Airlines was useless and insulting when we asked whether they’d be providing us with a hotel voucher or any accommodations. Maybe a good rule of thumb is if you’re going to fly American, budget $500 per trip for extra hotel expenses when they strand you somewhere overnight with no warning and claim both ignorance and poverty. At least Beth and I were able to travel together on our final flight home - American split up Molly, Maria, Riley, and Diana across three different flights the next day. But we eventually did make it home, and we collapsed onto our bed. After so much travel, east then west, south then north - we were ready to stay home for a bit and sleep in our own bed. For now, anyway.

Looking back on it, Colombia was a dream come true. Partly because of the destination, and being able to check off one of the only countries in South America I hadn’t seen. But mostly because it was finally getting to travel with our LA family. And the best part is that it was easy. We were there for a week, and while we often spend whole days or weekends with B2D2, a week in a foreign destination was a new one for us. But we already know it’s going to become a more frequent occurrence. The next time we saw everyone a couple weeks later at M&M’s house, we were already talking about where else we’d all go together. Maybe revisit another part of Colombia in a couple years when all the kids are older. Maybe Argentina. Maybe somewhere in Europe. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when and where and how. But also, maybe we just pick somewhere, buy a house, and all have a vacation home to meet up at a couple times a year.

Call it the family home.

A Sudden Realization

I struggled with writing this retrospective for a long time. I think part of it is that we usually have a reason for picking the places we want to go visit, but this time there wasn’t the kind of agency in making those choices that lets you build a narrative. There wasn’t a background story behind how we chose to go there, or something driving the individual decisions of our trip, or a conclusion being fulfilled by a premise - because these trips were chosen for us. But several months later, I realized that despite my initial thought process, there absolutely was a reason, a purpose, and a driving factor. It just took me a bit to realize.

The reason for these trips was family, but that wasn’t my big realization - I’ll get to that in a moment. These trips weren’t just an exploration of different places around the world, but an exploration of what constitutes family. And in doing so, I finally understood something both simple and profound.

Family is blood and bond, but also found and earned. It’s parents and in-laws and friends and cousins and neighbors across the street that become bonded and decide “you - I’m keeping you around, because you make my world better.” It’s being Barrett, and Bear, and Unca Bear, and B&B, and B2D2 - but also brother, son, and Uncle Barrett. It’s having an answer better than “fine” when asked how you’re doing, because those people genuinely care and want to know - because your happiness impacts their world, and theirs impacts yours. It’s the family you’ve known all your life, and the friends who become more than the single term can convey, and it’s the people you choose to keep. Which is why from the moment we were aware of these family trips, there wasn’t a millisecond where we even considered not going on both.

We went to Greece because of family, and we enjoyed Greece because of family. It would have been a very different - and objectively worse - trip without them. I have a thousand rich memories of moments large and small that wouldn’t have been possible without family.

Katy Steve’s tour of Athens. A slideshow celebrating two lives shown against the blue and purple hues below the waterline. Meg sliding up beside me with hand sanitizer every time I pet a cat, knowing that it would happen again literally five minutes later as soon as I saw another one. Beth getting giddy at each and every archeological site, and excitedly telling me how they were the birthplace or origin of this or that Greek deity in the pantheon. Wine tasting with Meg and Cory on top of the world. Blake’s discovery of veal, but also his face when he realized that we’d planned a surprise party for him. Brad pointing up at a thousand steps, wiping his brow of sweat, and casually suggesting we climb all of them to see the fort. Cory and I quietly drinking scotch in the upstairs lounge, ignoring the ship’s lilting back and forth, as he beat the snot out of me at Scrabble. Leaning out on the back deck with Spencer at night, and just talking about the water and the stars above as the wind whipped around us. Peggy and Jim dressed to the nines for their fiftieth anniversary, beaming as they walked into the dining room.

Each of these memories feels important to me for some reason. None of them required being in Greece, but all of them happened because we were. They are small, and personal memories - each a snippet of a moment in time where I suddenly felt so blessed to just be here, now, experiencing this. As I said before, Greece was the gravity around which we all orbited, letting us make memories that couldn’t have happened anywhere else.

Colombia was no different. It’s possible I would have gone there one day, but the trip we took with our B2D2 family was both different and infinitely better than what we would have done alone. And so are the memories.

Wandering Getsemani with Diana and J-Ma, in search of coffee to bring home. Watching Molly and Maria alone on the dance floor the first night we were there, lost in each other for just a moment. Talking about science with Hartley and Sacha in the van ride back to the hotel. Shopping for art with Beth in Getsemani, and the stunning jellyfish painting she nearly bought and still mentions from time to time. Throwing Andy as high and as far as I could in the infinity pool atop the hotel, and having him ask for just a little bit farther next time. Walking the walls and shopping for souvenirs with Matt and Tracey and the kids, and almost getting caught out in a downpour. Following Hayley as she marched us into the coolest rooftop bar in Cartagena like she owned the building. Hitting on the bartender in El Barón. Watching Bruce and Corey living their absolute best lives on a private island. Maria describing the dishes she’d ordered us at her birthday dinner, both nostalgic at the offerings and anticipating what we would think.

None of these are moments that would make a Netflix travel doc. They’re not big, broad, four quadrant moments to create drama and advance a storyline. They’re all small. Intimate. And truth be told, all of them were were just us being us, together, somewhere else in the world. But there’s something lovely and wonderful about that. In the end, both Greece and Colombia were an excuse to spend dedicated time with each other somewhere special - yes both played the part of the main event, but secretly they were just the setting of the play.

And remembering all of that - from Athens to Cartagena - is what made me realize the thing that helped me tie all of this together. We went to these places all around the world not just because of curiosity and not just because of family, but because travel is a love language.

It’s a love language encompassing “let me show you something that I think you’ll find meaningful” and “let’s both explore and discover together.” It’s “let’s all seek and find and make memories together” and it’s the reason I spend several days (or sometimes several months) writing these to try and help you feel like you were right there beside me for the journey. Because travel is a love language.

We traveled not just because of family, but because we love our family. All of our family - blood, and found, and chosen. The thing that made us want to get on planes, trains, automobiles, boats, and cross oceans and seas alike was very simply that: to show our love, and to share in doing something we all loved. And it’s the reason they made these plans and invited us in the first place: to show their love.

So there was a driving force behind these trips all along. The thing that kept me from being able to find the through-line - that we didn’t choose these experiences, they were chosen for us by people we love, and we joined along because of those people we love - that was actually the driving force. That was the reason for making the choices we all made to find somewhere, go somewhere, and celebrate.

Because travel is a love language.

It took me too long to realize, perhaps. And it’s how I find myself here, months and months later, recognizing that I’ve spent just over 31,000 words getting to the point of “the reason we went on these trips to spend time with the people we love and call family, is because they love us and we love them.” It sounds almost trite - like “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” And maybe it’s a little embarrassing that I’m just now figuring this out at 43 years old (look, we’re all works in progress - and some of us are late bloomers to boot.) But remembering these moments and memories in my head, I don’t remember them for how they looked, or for what we discovered, but for how they felt and with whom. I remember them with the glow of affection and a warm and fuzzy filter of joy.

I remember them all with this buoyancy that makes every moment a little lighter. Even the really hot ones. Or the ones where we cried. Or the ones where we almost died. (Or the ones that didn’t rhyme.)

And that’s the real conclusion: this year, we didn’t travel for the love of exploration or for the love of cultural discovery - though we found both along the way. This year we traveled for the love of family. Found family, chosen family, and genetic family. It took us from one side of the world to the other, and we went places we might never have seen, while making memories we would definitely have never had, all for, with, and because of family. And we loved (almost) every second of it.

Because travel is our love language.

Coda

Sitting back here in Los Angeles, the fall is starting to move itself in on the summer heat. Nights are getting colder, and more mornings begin with a layer of cloud cover and a slight dampness over the city. I’m several months and several thousand miles removed from the persistent heat and humidity of both Greece and Colombia. I no longer look to my seersucker and linen clothing immediately upon exiting the shower. But in many ways it feels like we’ve only recently returned. As if just moments ago we were sweating through the Aegean, drunk on the color of the water and heady for the discovery of something new amongst something old. As if just yesterday we were walking along walls of coral and through multicolor streets filled with art, coming from or heading towards the beat of a cumbia.

But perhaps, soon enough, again. We’re getting ready to travel a bit for the holidays. East to see Beth’s family, north to see mine, and to various other places to see and spend time with other members of the family we’ve chosen.

And I wouldn’t be shocked if, at some point, perhaps after a little wine, there’s a pause, a thought, a smile, and then we turn to the people we love and say:

“Hey, have you ever thought about going to…”