Every journey begins with the first step.

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So my friends, how did I get to writing about travel, memories, and my experiences around the world? The answer is in the famous quote from St Augustine: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

I’ve always felt that life becomes even more beautiful when it’s driven by curiosity, creativity, and a touch of wonder. Whether I’m jotting down ideas in a notebook or simply watching the clouds drifting by, I truly enjoy dreaming about what’s possible and finding magic in everyday moments. Travel means the world to me—I love discovering new places, meeting interesting people, and gaining thoughts on how different cultures celebrate life in their own special ways.

I’ve been amazed, delighted, and yes, on occasion, frightened at what I’ve found. Yet I continue to peek around corners and into things that seem interesting to me anywhere and everywhere. Every single experience has been memorable. I’ve met people from every walk of life, tasted food that I loved and hated, traveled luxuriously on Concorde, Cunard, and my all-time favorite, Pan Am’s 747 services. 

While I love to roam, my heart always circles back to what matters most: the people I care about. I cherish meaningful conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments with those I love. Life is an open book—and I’m grateful for every chapter written with good company. Truth be told, I know I never want to reach the end of the line.

How my mom taught me to read.

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From an early age, my mom taught me to read through a radio program called “Puck the Comic Weekly.” Every Sunday, we would sit on the floor at home as she encouraged me to repeat the words from the funny comics. This approach was incredibly effective.

When I was old enough to walk with her, we would go to the San Francisco Public Library on Green Street; the image here is the same beautiful library, still in operation. We spent hours there; they had reading sessions galore, and we took several books home for my mom to read to me and to make sure I repeated the words.

Thanks to my mom, I am a maniac reader to this day and prefer reading over any other medium. I am so fortunate she cared so much about me. I am blessed with my great-granddaughter, Olivia, who is 2 years old and who loves to read with her mom. I am Olivia’s Super-Grandpa, so I send her books regularly. That makes me very, very happy.

Farewell, beloved partner.

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I love John Steinbeck’s book “Travels with Charley” because it captures the freedom, curiosity, and unpredictability of the open road- the very feelings that have brought me so much happiness behind the wheel. When he started his journey, he named his truck “Rocante,” and I chose that name for my car, a trusted companion whose long, steady journey would become one of the great joys of my life.

This car was an incredible travel companion, racking up about 245,500 miles that filled my life with quiet joy and deep contentment. We experienced every kind of weather, faced traffic jams, burned through countless gallons of gasoline, and made endless pit stops along the way, and through it all, reaching that remarkable 245,500-mile mark felt like a badge of honor we earned together.

Every day, we hear the refrain, “they don’t build them like they used to.” I’m here to tell you this was a perfect partner, one whose reliability and spirit made parting with her bittersweet. When it came time for me to get another vehicle, I put a notice in the paper, and within two days, a family purchased her for their granddaughter’s first car, a farewell that warmed my heart and made me very happy.

We all had a computer in school.

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Entrance of Spring Valley Elementary School with families and children outside

As children, from a certain age, we didn’t know how well off we were. Long before the advent of Tandy computers and 6” screens, we had portable devices of our own. They were called pencils.

Incredibly, I still have one from my childhood school. It’s light blue, with the words “San Francisco School System” proudly printed in white on the side. One might wonder how (or why) I’d have a pencil that is nearly 75 years old. However, anyone who knows me well will understand. Spring Valley Elementary School on Jackson Street in San Francisco handed out these pencils (free, I might add) to any student. Since I love new pencils, with the freshly sharpened smell, I probably asked for one every day. No one seemed to be concerned that I went through them at the speed of light.

Many years after I left Spring Valley, I was driving down Jackson Street and passed the school. I pulled over, parked, and went inside for the first time in decades. The first thing I noticed was that the school smelled exactly like it did when I was a student there. You had to spend years at the school to know what I mean. I wandered into what was my kindergarten class. It looked the same, with small tables and tiny chairs. In a few moments, a young teacher walked in and, thinking that I was someone’s grandparent, cheerfully asked if she could help me in any way.

I replied that I’d been a student in that very classroom as a child. She was thrilled. It was like I’d opened a door for her to peer into and to imagine what it must have been like “then.” She was so excited, she asked me if I’d like to go upstairs to the principal’s office to meet her. I declined the opportunity to meet the principal. However, I did walk upstairs, and as I rounded the corner, I saw the exact same white bench outside her office that was there when I was a student. I remembered it all too well.

You never forget where you were when you hear these.

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This was a Monday in 1958—a year that would quietly send a remarkable generation into the world. On this exact date, I was probably walking the halls of Jefferson High, one of countless kids learning to navigate a changing America without even realizing history was forming around us.

I was thinking about the lunch bell ringing or what my girlfriend, Diana, had in mind after school, but beneath those ordinary worries, something bigger was taking shape. We were the bridge between the postwar dream and the modern age, the ones who grew up with rotary phones and space shots, black-and-white TV and color revolutions in music, culture, and technology.

Often, someone would plan a party in their parents’ garage, and we’d look forward to a make-out party disguised as a social gathering, where we’d hear these songs over and over. Those garage gatherings were more than teenage mischief; they were where our generation learned to connect, push boundaries gently, and dream a little beyond the rules our parents handed down.

My personal favorite on this list was (and is) “Rebel Rouser” — man, that guy could play his Twangy Guitar. That sound captured exactly what made kids born in 1958 distinctive: we were restless but hopeful, respectful yet quietly rebellious, shaped by our parents’ sacrifices but determined to write our own story.

Ah, memories — I often hear that song on Spotify — who knew? And that’s part of why our experiences still matter: our small moments, like a song spinning in a garage or echoing now through a streaming app, link the past to the present and remind us that the world we all live in was, in no small part, built on the lives, risks, and dreams of the children of 1958.

“This is gonna hurt”

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Often, I reflect on the things I have done throughout my lifetime that may have caused harm to someone, resulting in pain or discomfort. As I am closer to the end of my life than the beginning, thoughts like this are more common

I read something today that made me pause; it was a devotional that addressed forgiveness, titled as shown above. It is painful to think about the times I have disappointed or hurt someone. In my heart and prayers, I hope that somehow I have asked others to forgive me. The wonderful Rector of our church offers me absolution through confession; every time he does this, I am thankful. I do “humbly confess my sins”.

My Mom, gardenias, and me.

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Growing up in San Francisco was wonderful. There was always something to do and see, but what I remember most is the delight my Mom brought to those small adventures. One of my favorite things was going downtown with her. The cable car stopped around the corner from our flat, and we rode it to the end of the line, Powell and Market Streets. Across Market Street stood the Emporium, a huge department store my Mom loved. I loved watching her take it all in—the familiar streets, the busy store, the simple pleasure of being out together.

On nearly every visit, we saw an older man with a green pushcart in front of the Emporium’s main entrance, selling flowers—especially gardenias. My Mom always noticed them, and I was fascinated by the flowers too. The gardenias were beautiful, fragrant, and wrapped in bright green around the stem, with a pin to attach the flower to your date. Each time we passed the cart, I would hound my Mom for change so I could buy one for her. I can still picture the happiness on her face when she received it, as though that little flower had made the whole outing even more special.

How gallant of me, asking my Mom for money to give her a flower she had actually paid for herself. I don’t remember whether the gardenias cost a dime or a quarter, but they were top-notch, and she always admired them. She would thank me with such genuine pleasure that I felt I had given her something enormous. Those moments stay with me: her smile, her warmth, and the quiet joy she found in being remembered. The gardenia in the image here is from a plant I’ve nurtured at home, and caring for it brings those days back to me. I loved our time together, and I loved seeing how happy she was. Thanks, Mom, for everything.

If you lived in San Francisco, you would remember this.

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The family that ran this flower stand was kind of a local legend in San Francisco. One of the owners even had a recurring bit part in several police dramas filmed around the city.

I worked just down the street from the cart for years, and when my youngest daughter was with me, she’d pick out whatever flowers she wanted. He’d always throw in a free corsage for her. I really love that memory.

Boy, I wish Renoir had been my brother.

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I enjoy classical art, especially pieces by the French Impressionist painters. I’ve enjoyed visiting museums around the world, and one of the best ever is right in the city of Chicago. The Art Institute of Chicago is home to a massive collection of art, including this particular piece titled “Two Sisters (On the Terrace.”)

I don’t know what it is about this painting, however, each time I visit Chicago, I make a beeline to the museum to say hello to my two “girlfriends.” The colors are vibrant, exciting, and iridescent. When you look at this painting even for a moment, it seems to come alive.

I have a small reproduction of this painting that is hanging in my office. Each time I look at it, I think of how wonderful the original would look hanging in my living room. Hey, if Renoir had been my brother, perhaps he would have given it to me as a birthday present. We can dream, can’t we?

Jackie Kennedy Onassis and I flew to Paris together.

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One of my most memorable flight experiences was flying on Concorde. Everything about the aircraft, the in-flight service, the highly selective pre-boarding, and the astounding view out the tiny windows was fantastic.

Of course, Air France had its own separate boarding area and process for Concorde passengers. The moment you entered the lounge, you knew something special was in store. As soon as you walked in, someone handed you a glass of Champagne. Never mind it was 8AM. Anytime is time for Dom Pérignon. Small seating areas dotted the lounge, and nearly every seat was full. The aircraft seated only 144 passengers, so at that hour everyone was relaxing and preparing to board the flight to Paris.

You might ask how (or why) I was in this boarding group. Truth be told, it was an extraordinary stroke of luck and a reliable personal connection with an Air France district sales manager in New York City. About 20 minutes before boarding, everyone was talking, laughing, and generally thrilled to be in that select group of travelers. Suddenly,y the door opened, and within seconds,s all the chatter stopped. It was instantly quiet. I’d never seen anything unfold quite like that.

Jackie Kennedy Onassis and a traveling companion had just walked into the lounge; they were booked to travel on that very same Concorde to Paris. For a moment, everyone in the salon was stunned. Sure, celebrities and wanna’ be tycoons traveled on Concorde, but this was special. We were all 20’ away from the most recognizable woman on earth. Unfortunately, Jackie had no chance of sitting next to me for the 3 1/2-hour flight, so I passed the time with Beluga Caviar, even more Champagne, lunch (at breakfast time), and Cognac. That is indeed the breakfast of champions.

At one point during my meal, I looked out the window and could actually see the curve of the earth as we flew at an altitude of 55,000 feet with a ground speed of 1,300 miles per hour. This was undoubtedly no regular flight; it was stratospheric. I still have the wonderful pen Air France gave us in their amenity kit. I wonder if Jackie ever used hers?

My favorite Church in Paris, Johann Sebastian Bach and me.

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St Germaine

Église Saint-Germain-des-Prés is one of Paris’s oldest churches and sits in the middle of one of the city’s most exciting, interesting neighborhoods. Each time I visit Paris, I hop on the Metro and zoom over to the Church.

It’s always one of my first stops when I’m in town, mostly because I still light a candle there in memory of my Grandmother. I took the image shown above and tucked into the middle is one candle taller than the rest. That one’s for you, Grandma.

On one visit, it was a cold, dark, rainy day, and mist covered the church steeple. I walked up to the steps and pushed against the closed front door. It was stuck, so I pushed harder to open it. Behind the door was a small vestibule before you actually entered the Church. I stood there for a moment before opening the second small door. The door opened a couple of inches, and as I entered, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

The Church was rather dark, and suddenly a ray of sunshine poured through one of the windows like a beacon directed to me. At almost the same moment, I heard an organist begin the opening notes of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The music became louder and louder, with notes soaring to the very top of the Church. I was transfixed. I thought to myself: “Wow, is this a sign, or what?” I sat down for about 20 minutes while the organist continued practicing. During that time, the music started and stopped, and each time I was stunned that only three people were in the Church for that one session. The organist, my Grandmother, and I.