I was nervous. I wanted this, but I had no idea how much it would hurt. The artist worked quickly. I sweated like I was in a triathlon. When it was done, I was thrilled. Instructions in hand, I headed home feeling like I had just claimed a little piece of independence.

Suddenly, a couple of young men started singing Rolling Stones songs.  

“I can’t get no Satisfaction…”

One by one, people joined in, and soon, the entire train car was filled with people singing along.

Boats jammed together, bounced off one another, and veered sideways. Instead of frustration, the whole thing dissolved into laughter—from us on shore and from most of the boaters themselves. It was slapstick comedy on water, and absolutely priceless.

We walked a lot that first evening, but the following day, we jumped on trains and buses to get around. Crossing the Rhine River, we made our way to the highly anticipated Paper Museum.

Yes, I get it; you’re probably wondering, "Why would anyone in their right mind want to visit a paper museum on vacation?" That sounds like the kind of place you only go to as a chaperone on a child’s field trip, just because it’s your turn to wrangle the kids.

You would be wrong.

The change is subtle, but the days already hint that fall is arriving.

Today is the Equinox, officially ending summer and marking the beginning of fall. The rest of our summer staycation was filled with night concerts at the Rady Shell, plenty of paddleboarding, playing with Jax at the beach, relaxing in our backyard, watching the H-1 Hydroplane Unlimited finals, and trying a few new restaurants.

My husband and I love little surprises like that, so we happily set out. The day was warming up, and we shed our jackets as we climbed. We went up, then down, and around through the rocks. Just as we were working up a sweat, we turned a corner and the spray from the waterfall hit our skin, instantly cooling us.

From there, we continued to Dynjandi Waterfall. To our surprise, there were hardly any other people there, even though it’s the largest waterfall in northwest Iceland and one of the country’s most famous and “most beautiful”. To be honest, every waterfall we saw was billed as “the most beautiful,” but Dynjandi certainly lived up to the praise. Still, we couldn’t figure out where all the tourists were.

Every Labor Day, I see cookouts and long weekends. This year, I found myself thinking about something else entirely: the people whose work built the world we enjoy, and one man who reminded me why that matters.

The park was alive before the sun had even started to set. Groups of young people glided in on bicycles, bottles clinking in backpacks, laughter spilling ahead like the soundtrack to a spontaneous summer festival. Within minutes, the lawns became a patchwork of circles, bikes stacked nearby. Everywhere I looked, more groups were forming, their numbers swelling across the park.

Then, as if on cue, the circles began to stir. People stood, lined up, and began coordinated movements. I commented to my husband that maybe these were exercise groups, or perhaps line dancers. 

Another night, we discovered the Tenth Avenue Arts Center, a small downtown theater, and saw an original musical called Wulfeater. It’s written by Brian and Danisha Jenkins, with music and lyrics by the Jenkins and Julia Roskopf, and choreography by Christian DePaul and Roskopf. The whole production was an immersive, interactive experience set in the fictional world of Cleveland, digging into themes of capitalism, oppression, and patriarchy. At times, it felt like we were sitting in the bar with the characters, watching their lives unfold.

The music was raw hard rock, the acting was sharp, and even the intermission became part of the story. By the end, the whole audience was on its feet, cheering the characters as they fought to take their lives back, even as some clung to the comfort of the status quo. It was thought-provoking and unforgettable. As director Brian Jenkins shouted: “Welcome to the Wulfeater, mother f*ckers…Are you ready to have some fun?” The answer was definitely yes.

It’s a funny feeling to realize you’re afraid the people closest to you will judge your work. In the past, I wrote without fear, sending query letters left and right. I received more rejection letters than I care to admit, but I never let it hinder me. I’d cross that publication off my list and move on. Onward!

The psychology isn’t complex: my Facebook is filled with people I know personally. Strangers can reject me all day long, but friends and family? 

Terrifying!

My husband and I sat down on a shaded log for a water and snack break, watching their antics for a while. These mischievous little thieves were clearly here for a reason...  

Hikers came and went, and those who stopped to jump in the water would lay down their backpacks and leave them unattended.  No one worried about theft, at least not from people. But the monkeys? They were watching.

These clever little monkeys would watch the people, and as soon as someone went swimming, the monkeys would dart down, inspect the bag, and, if possible, open it. Some of them even knew how to work zippers!  

By the time the swimmer noticed, the monkeys had already snatched what they could and taken off, just as the person came running up the beach.

At our table sat six men—fathers and their adult sons—cheerfully recounting their day’s fishing trip. When my husband stepped away to get more beers, one of the men leaned in quietly and asked, “Are you two here on holiday or trying to escape?”

I laughed out loud. He smiled playfully, shrugged, and said, “Well, judging by your accents, it could go either way, and I don’t want to offend. You might have a gun!”

My husband came back to the table just as my Kiwi neighbor and I were laughing it up.  I shared his question and answer with my husband, who immediately started laughing too.  From then on, we were friends. The men shared stories of their annual fishing ritual, with The Shucker Brothers as a must-stop before heading home, and staying connected until the following year.

We were learning how open, friendly, and fun the Kiwi people are.

As the sun dipped lower, we strolled along the Bondi Promenade and cut over to Campbell Parade to find a spot to relax before heading back to Coogee. There were plenty of places to choose from, but, true to form, we found the best dive bar and joined in the revelry. Chuck Trailer’s Bondi Beach was exactly the kind of spot we love.

It felt like home, like being back in San Diego’s Mission or Ocean Beach. Laid-back, beachwear-friendly, and full of good energy.

The best part? The spinning wheel.

The cardboard roulette-style wheel had numerous “prizes”, with highlights including a free drink, food discounts, a time-out, and a shoe drink.

We got to witness all of them. Let the fun begin!

I saw the birds ahead and the water splashing and told my daughter to get ready. Jax had sensed them long before we saw them. He suddenly jumped up and paced, anxious but excited. He came to me, and I thought he wanted to look over the edge—but he didn’t. Not yet.

Then the dolphins came. Hundreds—maybe thousands—jumping, racing, playing in our wake. My daughter’s family lit up with joy. Jax, still whining, finally came to the rail and looked over. His tail wagged. His ears popped back up. And he started that high-pitched whine he uses when he’s thrilled. Like when we approach Dog Beach or Fiesta Island—his "I can’t wait" sound.

My husband knelt beside him while Jax leaned over the rail, tail wagging, eyes wide. He’d look out, then come boop my hand, like he was saying, “Are you seeing this?!”

As the light began to soften, we hopped in the car and drove toward Hampden Bridge, crossing over the Kangaroo River and turning onto Bendeela Road just as Alex had advised. Almost immediately, we saw what we’d hoped for—kangaroos! Troops of them dotted the open fields, grazing in the golden hour light. My husband pulled over so I could hop out, take some photos, and just soak it in.

A little further on, as we passed some homes tucked back from the road, I saw them—two wombats munching away in someone’s front yard. I doubt the homeowners were thrilled, but I was absolutely giddy.

When I was twelve, I was a latchkey kid—like most of us Gen Xers. Being home alone or at a friend’s house without adult supervision wasn’t unusual. One day, I was at my friend Kitty’s house, just the two of us. For some reason, we decided to bake something.

We were responsible kids, so Kitty called her mom at work and asked for permission. Her mom said yes. (Again, Gen Xers.)

We browsed through Kitty’s mom’s many recipe books and settled on pumpkin pie. It must have been just after Halloween, because Kitty had a pumpkin. Real pumpkin pie—how hard could it be?

After the guide finished her talk, we made our way toward the canopied tables set for lunch. As we walked, the guide began pointing out some old machinery. That’s when I first heard her voice.

I don’t think she meant for us to hear it, but there it was: “Ah yes, the rusted machinery tour—every girl’s dream when she books Tuscany.”

My husband giggled and softly agreed, “Right?”

That’s when the three of us—me, my husband, and the voice—looked at each other and grinned. We all laughed and kept walking.

Little Italy is full of charm, and you can find just about any style of Italian cuisine—from casual trattorias and cozy pizza takeout spots to upscale dining. We popped into The Market by Buon Appetito, an Italian grocery and café. The aroma alone was enough to tempt me, but somehow, I walked out without a single item. That’s a personal record.

Just when I started to worry, Captain Kyle steered us south, and as if on cue, we could see hundreds of birds.  As we approached, the magic happened!

Dolphins. Thousands of them. We were suddenly in the middle of a megapod—common dolphins feeding, leaping, and surrounding our boat in every direction. As we entered their controlled chaos, they seemed to welcome us, some darting alongside the R.I.B., others weaving beneath it.  They!  Were!  Everywhere!