This spring, my partner Adrienne and I made the somewhat difficult decision to quit our jobs and go traveling. Over the next five months, we intend to traverse the entire globe, hitting the following countries as we go:

1. New Zealand
2. Australia
3. Thailand
4. Cambodia
5. Laos
6. Vietnam
7. Kazakhstan
8. Uzbekistan
9. Georgia
10. Turkey
11. Romania
12. Germany
13. France
14. England

The impetus for this trip is multi-faceted. But if I had to pick one motivation for me it would be death. Over the past five years, both Adrienne and I have seen our fair share of death and decay. We’ve lost multiple loved ones and seen others laid low by sickness or injury. Now that we are both approaching middle age, we’ve also come face-to-face with our own mortality.

I’ve seen this mortality manifest on multiple levels. My facial lines are getting deeper. My grey hair is getting more prominent. And my ol’ bag of bones is generally creakier and more vulnerable. In fact, I’ve had more injuries in the past year alone than I had for the other 36. My back has been demolished from too much exercise, and my arms have basically refused to stay lodged in their sockets.

Collectively, these experiences have made death feel more real than ever before. And while I know I can’t ultimately escape it, trying to do everything I want to do while I’m healthy enough to do it has helped ease the existential burden. I figure that if I can do that, then when I’m writhing in pain from a bad case of fanny cancer, at least I won’t simultaneously be lamenting the places never seen and the experiences never had.

That is the headspace that brings me to my current place of traveling around the globe. Following months and months of planning, our trip officially began on 3/6. We took off from Minneapolis and headed to Seattle, Washington. Our flight to New Zealand was scheduled for two days later, on 3/8, briefly routing through Vancouver.

After we landed in Seattle, we loaded up our bags onto our bodies, waddled over to The Link light rail and bought a ticket. 15 minutes later, we were on our way to the city. Per usual for American transit, The Link was a terrible experience. It was slower than a snail, clunky and crammed full of people. But eventually, after nearly an hour of puttering along in a toy train, we arrived at The Sound Hotel, which is where we were staying. A delicious drink and a bite and an obligatory dispensary stop visit later, and we were ready to hit the hay. We had to get up relatively early, you see, because we had a full day of social obligations in store. And so soon we were drifting off to sleep to the sound of Seattle’s perpetual rain.

Our plans the next day consisted of two staggered hangs with Adrienne’s older brother Sam and my childhood friend Dave, who each had their respective children in tow. We met up with Sam and his son/Adrienne’s nephew Timmy first. Sam lives in the community of Shelton, WA, and he and Timmy took the ferry to join us in Seattle on the morning of 3/7. We met at Seattle’s famed aquarium, which is located right on the moody shoreline of Washington’s stunning Puget Sound.

Timmy is a bright and silly and precocious young boy. We had a great time following him around the aquarium’s multiple buildings, hearing his observations on various elements of aquatic life and watching him run after different creatures on the other side of the glass. It was very cool how the aquarium integrated exhibits into the Sound itself. You’d occasionally walk into a particular part of the aquarium, for example, and see actual Sound water come rushing in and out.

Once we were done with our aquarium time, Adrienne bought Timmy a few souvenirs from the gift shop, including a neat mood ring. We next stopped for a drink at one of the waterfront’s countless restaurants and then Sam and Timmy began their journey back to Shelton. For our part, Adrienne and I turned around and began trudging back to the hotel for a bit of flopping/TV time, aka our favorite activities. But before long, we were back out on the street heading to a local pizza joint called Serious Pie to meet Dave and his kids for an early dinner.

I’ve been friends with Dave ever since I was 14 and he was 15, so going on 25 years at this point. His two kids are both silly and sweet. They love to chatter and enjoy putting on a show for those they’re with. Adrienne and I had a ball joking around with his youngest. She would hand us imaginary pieces of pizza and then tell us what disgusting ingredients she had added after we mimed taking a bite and reacting in abject horror. The best bit was when she said she had given us a slice with vomit on it. Dave gently told her that her imaginings needed to be edible ingredients, to which she responded that “It is” without missing a beat.

As the night wound down, we bid Dave and the kids adieu. Then it was time to retire to my quarters with my one true love. As we drifted off to the sound of more rain pissing down upon Seattle, I reflected on the day. I mused about how Serious Pie now ranks as some of the saltiest and tasteless and overpriced pizza I’ve ever eaten. I thought about Dave’s kids and funny and fantastical their minds are. I then brooded over how far away I am now from that stage of life and how fast it has all flown by since then. But I also thought about Dave himself and how he has been a fixture of my life throughout many of those intervening years, years which have luckily often been filled with warmth and love and interesting experiences.

This felt like a positive headspace to start my trip off on. It felt particularly advantageous given that the trip was born from fear over my inevitable death and the desire to shore up positive memories to ease that eventual passing. Ironically, though, this came about not from a particularly new experience, but by connecting with one of my oldest friends. Yet such is life, I suppose. Sometimes looking back can help you move forward, or as T.S. Eliot once (more eloquently) said:

“We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time.“

No matter what lies ahead on our trip, I know that I have already had a rich, dense and charmed life. And while this reminder may not be enough yet to fully lessen the existential slap that is death, perhaps it is a small sign of progress.

And with that, I will sign off for now. Adventure awaits us over 2,700 km to the southwest. Join us next time, when we will be reporting on the ground in New Zealand.

Adrienne’s Addendum:

I wanted to add two things related to our time with Tim to preserve the memories and also share the joy of being around a sensitive and curious child who I don’t get to see very often. 

Jellyfish:

Outside of the aquarium along the pier, there’s a playground with a jellyfish playground structure. At the top is a metal slide, and children can climb up the inside of the structure using climbing holds and nets to get to the slide. Tim was very excited to go down the slide and zoomed over to begin the climb.

After about 15 minutes, he came back to us and announced with tears in his eyes that he was overwhelmed and frustrated with there being too many children in the structure. We encouraged him to try again but he stated that it was too overwhelming and loud, and expressed how sad he was that he couldn’t reach the slide at the top. I offered to accompany him, thinking I could provide some emotional support in navigating the overwhelm.

He and I entered the structure and almost immediately, the screams of other children and clambering of bodies led to tears and Tim facing the wall, shouting to me, “I wish I was by myself! I wish it was a weekday and all these other kids weren’t here!” (Basically Adam’s and my mantra in navigating any crowded tourist attraction) After some validation, modeling, and encouragement, as well as encountering a sweet little girl who told me, “don’t worry, I have anxiety sometimes too!” when I asked her to pause her climbing so Tim could make his way up, we both made it to the top.

After going down the slide, Tim was able to climb up the second time on his own, with me offering encouragement from the ground. I share this because I want to remember and highlight what a special kid Tim is, that he can notice and verbalize when he’s feeling overwhelmed and work through those feelings with the support of an adult. The picture below is of the jellyfish structure – you can see me in the yellow jacket inside of it. 

Buffy:

In September 2025, we said goodbye to our beloved 14.5-year-old dog, Buffy. Tim loves dogs and enjoyed spending time with her when he visited Minnesota. He last saw her in July 2025, where he delighted in watching her eat wild strawberries and sunflower leaves in our backyard at dusk as fireflies flitted about. I remember thinking that it could be a magical memory for a little kid and felt joy in being able to provide that. 

As we were navigating the throng of tourists in Pike Place Market on Saturday, I heard Tim quietly say, “I miss Buffy”. Anyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one knows the gift of hearing someone else speak the loved one’s name or share a memory of them unprompted. We hadn’t talked about Buffy at all that day, but somewhere in his curious and thoughtful mind, he remembered her in that moment. 

It felt like an exceptional Buffy Blessing to hear her name come from a precocious 7-year-old while navigating a chaotic afternoon in downtown Seattle. It affirmed to me not only how special Buffy is, but also how lucky I am to be in Tim’s orbit.