The bus stop was nothing more than a sign on a pole, which should have been our first clue that public transit in Vancouver comes with a side of improvisation. When the bus arrived, we asked how to pay. “Swipe your credit card,” said the driver. I swiped once. When I tried for my husband, it wouldn’t take it. We needed a second card. I had only brought one. Cue the awkward shuffle in a bus packed like sardines and a driver clearly on a tight schedule. He rolled his eyes, handed us tickets, mumbled instructions, and we stood, smiling nervously at strangers as the bus lurched forward.

So I opened a small savings account just for this goal. I tucked away a few dollars from each paycheck for more than six months. When Christmas rolled around, it was time to start the hunt.

I already knew it would be hard to find one, that I couldn’t be picky, and that if I shopped wisely, I might even afford an extra doll dress or maybe a play stroller.

I’m dating myself here, but back then, Black Friday was truly Black Friday. No online shopping. You watched the ads and hoped the big newspaper stuffed with them landed on your doorstep on Thanksgiving morning.

Alaska’s glaciers are where I first learned to appreciate the beauty in shades of blue, white, and grey ice. It is where I learned to stand quietly and listen to the soft popping deep inside the ice. It is also where I discovered how thrilling it is to witness a glacier calve. There is nothing like watching a massive chunk of ancient, layered ice crack, roar, and break free before splashing into the sea and drifting away as a newborn iceberg. It never stops feeling awe-inspiring.

Ralph showed up at the airport with an extra parka, scarf, waterproof winter boots, and lined mittens. I changed into the boots, and then he quickly got to work. He layered the gear on me, pulled the scarf over most of my face, and cinched the fuzzy-lined hood down tight. The last piece was a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes. We walked toward the door, both of us giggling.

It was gray outside, and I felt a jolt of excitement at finally experiencing Alaska. As we approached the door, I caught my reflection in the glass. I looked like the kid from A Christmas Story, stiff and awkward under all the winter gear. Right before the door opened, Ralph told me to blink often to protect my eyeballs.

I’ve made five trips to Alaska so far, three by air and two by sea. I genuinely believe everyone should cruise Alaska at least once. Still, my favorite way to visit is to fly in, rent a car, take a few train rides, or even take a floatplane excursion to visit remote, smaller towns.

Some places shine from the water. Glacier Bay is unforgettable, and many of the cruise stops sit on Alaska’s islands. The train ride from Fairbanks down to Seward is one of my favorite trips in the entire state. The stretch between Anchorage and Seward is the standout. Then again, nothing compares to flying over Denali National Park. Alaska is full of impossible choices like that.

On cruise ship days (typically Saturdays and Sundays, with Saturday being the busiest), vendors line the Embarcadero all the way from the cruise terminal south to Seaport Village and north past Waterfront Park.  The foot traffic can be enormous, depending on how many ships are in port that day.  With Norwegian Cruise Line adding San Diego as a start-and-stop port, there is rarely only one ship in port at a time.  

Gatun Lake, covering 166 square miles and sitting 82 to 87 feet above sea level, is alive with wildlife. Its forested islands and surrounding rainforest shelter over 100 species of mammals, more than 100 species of reptiles and amphibians, and over 500 species of birds. Cruising slowly through this diverse ecosystem, we even spotted alligators gliding past.  It was a reminder that, even amid such an immense feat of engineering, nature persists vibrant and alive.

When I reached the pen, he stood on his hind legs to meet my hand halfway. His tail wagged so fast I thought he might take flight. I bent down to talk to him, and he looked straight at me with those trusting eyes. In that instant, I knew.

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.