July, 2025 - Norman "Harvey" "Otto" Bohn Travel Blog

2014 – Tokyo, Japan

Back in middle school, I found escape in the strangest way—through ink, paper, and stamps. Pen pals. A fading ritual, like handwritten postcards and phone calls that cost money. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the first time the world cracked open for me. A kid in central Pennsylvania, writing strangers on the other side of the planet, curious about people, their food, their chaos. I was addicted to history and the strange ways humanity stumbled forward. But Japan? That wasn’t even on the radar yet.

Then came Chris.

High school. He had this calm confidence and stories—real ones. He lived in Germany. Four years in Japan. Not as a tourist, but as someone who belonged there. My eyes were wide. I wanted that. I wanted stories that came with weird breakfasts and long train rides through rice fields. Chris didn’t hoard the experience—he wanted me to see it, to feel it. The music, the places, the rhythms of a culture that wasn’t mine. Meanwhile, I was stuck in a place where the most exotic thing on the dinner table was a stromboli with too much American cheese.

Central PA was small. Not just the town—the mindset. Food came in beige. Music came through static radio. Everyone had plans, but none of them involved passports.

Life, of course, doesn’t give you things easily. I wanted Japan, but Japan wanted a visa, a degree, a job lined up. And I had none of that. Just a part-time grind and a calendar full of missed chances. When I had the time, I didn’t have the money. When I had the money, I was someone else’s responsibility.

Fast forward through a blur of airports, checkpoints, and false starts—Japan still hadn’t happened. I checked off places: Germany, the Middle East, a few corners of the world that smelled like dust and diesel. But Japan? That damn checkmark stayed empty.

I once had a trip booked—free, even, thanks to airline miles. But I gave it up. Used the ticket to send my kids to see their grandparents. The kind of sacrifice you do and then forget to pat yourself on the back for.

Years later, I had the time. I had the money. But I also had a wife who didn’t get it. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe it was resentment. I didn’t care anymore. I’d been overseas, grinding 12-hour days for 90 days straight in the Middle East. A slow boil in the desert. All I needed was a week to feel human again before I returned to the domestic reality of bills and passive aggression.

But she didn’t like that.

I remember calling home. Her voice—tense, accusatory. I was “vacationing” instead of rushing back like a good husband. But she didn’t understand. I needed distance. I needed Tokyo. I needed something for me, or I was going to bring the storm home.

I didn’t tell her how long I’d be gone. Why fight over it? This was my battle, and I’d already won it.

I wanted to visit my pen pal in Niigata, finally meet the person on the other end of those letters from my childhood. But the clock was ticking. I only had three full days in-country. I’d save Niigata for another time.

So there I was—standing in Dubai airport, bags packed, ready to board a plane to Japan. A strange calm came over me.

It wasn’t just a trip.

It was finally punching that ticket I’d been carrying around since I was 12.

The plan was simple. Get on a flight in Dubai, get off in Japan. What could go wrong?

I landed at Haneda just past 11 PM, and that’s when it hit me—Tokyo might be the city that never sleeps, but its trains sure as hell do. They stop. And when they stop, they don’t care how tired, lost, or culture-shocked you are.

So I did what I thought was clever—I booked a capsule hotel right at the airport. Sleek. Futuristic. Quintessentially Japanese, right?

Wrong.

Customs was quick, but the moment I stepped into the terminal, I realized I had no idea where I was going. Signs in English? Kinda. But not really. I wandered aimlessly, like some midnight zombie with a carry-on. Wasted a cab driver’s time only to end up right back where I started. Sorry, man.

Eventually, someone must’ve noticed I was the only foreigner pacing around like a confused raccoon. An airport security guard approached—gentle, with a warm smile and that perfect Japanese kindness. His English was rough, but better than my Japanese. He personally walked me to the capsule hotel entrance like I was some clueless backpacker in need of saving.

And there it was—tucked into the belly of the airport, almost too unassuming. My first real night in Japan. I was buzzing with excitement. That electric kind. The “you made it” kind.

I slid my luggage into a space barely big enough for one man and his regrets. The capsule was 6-by-6, just enough room for a bed, no illusions of privacy. I thought I’d be anxious about my stuff, but I’d come to learn—nobody touches anything in Japan. There’s a quiet code here. A respect.

But capsule life? It was not the cool sci-fi dream I imagined.

The walls were thin. Paper-thin. On one side, rhythmic snoring. On the other, something that sounded like a solo performance best left undocumented. That was my cue: no sock sessions tonight. Eyes forward. Keep it classy.

Bathrooms? Communal. Showers? Also communal. No stalls, no curtains—just a row of exposed showers like it was bootcamp all over again. I skipped it. Shy? Maybe. Tired? Definitely.

I lay there in that glowing plastic coffin, the fan humming like an anxious whisper, scrolling through hotel listings. I needed comfort. I needed familiar. I booked a Hilton. I had status, after all. Points to maintain. A bed that didn’t come with rules about masturbation.

But even there, lying in that glorified locker, I felt something real. A sense of arrival. Of crossing a line I’d dreamed about since I was twelve.

I also felt the urge to fix the hotel’s broken English instructions. Maybe they’ll change it. Maybe they won’t. Doesn’t matter. What mattered was this:

Tomorrow, the trains start running again. Tomorrow, I leave the airport.

And tomorrow, I wake up to my first real full day in Japan.

By now, I had Google Maps—my digital compass, my lifeline in a land where the streets curve like ramen noodles and addresses are a Zen riddle. The Tokyo train system? Still a cryptic beast. But like everything else in Japan, it made sense once you surrendered to its logic.

Luggage in tow, I boarded the train from Haneda to Shinjuku, that neon-soaked nerve center where reality frays just a little around the edges. It was quiet. Orderly. But not cold. I didn’t blend in—nobody ever does here—but a pair of kind, older Japanese women clocked me immediately: foreign, confused, probably carrying too much.

They let me sit in the “silver” section. For the elderly. For the injured. For the tired traveler with wide eyes and a dumb grin. I nodded my thanks. They smiled. No words needed.

The Hilton in Shinjuku treated me like a lost dignitary. Polished English, polite bows, keys handed over like I was royalty returning from exile. I was upgraded—big room, lounge access, clean sheets and hot water that didn’t come with shame.

I dropped my gear. Changed into something that didn’t smell like jet fuel and defeat. And I did what any wide-eyed tourist in Tokyo would do: I stepped outside and headed straight to the vending machines.

Not just machines. Icons. Shrines to convenience and weirdness.

You’ve heard the legends—beer, cigarettes, maybe even used panties for the depraved and the desperate. Japan doesn’t judge, it just delivers. But what I found that morning wasn’t filth. It was something better.

Black Boss.
A canned coffee with a name that punches you in the throat. No milk. No sugar. Just attitude and caffeine. I cracked it open. Took a sip.

I didn’t feel like a boss.
I felt like a man who’d spent 20 years trying to get to this moment.

The city didn’t roll out a red carpet. It didn’t need to. The crosswalks pulsed. The neon buzzed. I started walking toward Shibuya—the legendary crossing. That sea of motion where hundreds move like a choreographed hallucination.

I still wasn’t sure how I felt. But I was here.

And that was enough—for now.

I knew I had to do it.

The Crossing.

Shibuya—chaotic, cinematic, absurdly photogenic. I’d seen it a thousand times in films, blogs, and pixelated YouTube clips. But now, I was here. No screen between me and it. Just the city. Moving. Breathing.

Before I stepped into that river of humanity, I paid my respects to the Hachikō statue. A loyal dog who waited years for a master that never came home. The story punches you right in the chest—pure devotion wrapped in rusted bronze. Japan loves its ghosts.

The internet told me to visit, and for once, it wasn’t wrong.

Then I crossed.

Once. Twice. Five times.

Not because I was lost. Because I needed to feel it. That rush of strangers brushing past with perfect indifference. No one shoving. No one yelling. Just silent movement—hundreds of lives intersecting for mere seconds before splintering off into the city’s veins again.

Each time I crossed, something shifted in me. A surreal mix of awe and melancholy. This wasn’t just a tourist box to check. It was the moment.

I was here. Finally. Really.

But it was bittersweet.
Because every step reminded me that I wouldn’t be here long.

And sometimes, the most beautiful places are the ones you know you can’t stay in.

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The train ride was smooth. Of course it was. In Japan, even chaos arrives on time.

I was headed to Akihabara—the technophile’s sanctuary. A shrine built from neon, circuitry, and obsession. If Tokyo had a heartbeat, this was its electric pulse. You don’t just visit Akihabara. You plug into it.

For me, this wasn’t about anime girls or capsule toys—though they were everywhere, staring at you from vending machines like glitchy avatars. No, I came for the gear.

I did the sensible thing. I went lens hunting.

Back then, I still traveled with a DSLR. Phones weren’t there yet. They couldn’t capture what I needed—the wide shots, the edges of temples, the breath of a crowded alleyway at dusk. I needed glass. Something sharp. Something honest.

I found it.

A beautiful wide-angle lens. Expensive, sure. But what the hell. I’d earned it. After months of grinding in the desert, buried in sweat and sand, this was my gift to myself. Not a Rolex. Not a watch. A tool. Something to document the world properly.

Akihabara didn’t stop moving. Every alley held another world. Arcades. Camera shops. Maid cafés. Walls of blinking light and 8-bit nostalgia. You could lose hours here. You should lose hours here.

But even surrounded by the digital, I felt something grounded.

This wasn’t just tech.
It was possibility.
And in that moment, standing beneath a tangle of signs and sounds, camera in hand, I felt ready to go find it.

I was still figuring it out—this camera, this city, this moment.

The Canon DSLR hung around my neck like a tool I hadn’t quite mastered. I fumbled with exposures, tried to catch light in ways I didn’t fully understand yet. But I knew I’d get there. Eventually. Sometimes you have to take the bad shots before you find the good ones.

Akihabara was a maze. Bright. Loud. Beautifully absurd.

I walked—no, wandered—through it like a pilgrim in a place of worship he couldn’t quite explain. I didn’t know when I’d be back. Or if I’d be back. So I made the most of it. I climbed the stairs in tiny stores stacked like circuit boards, each floor more chaotic than the last. Floors that smelled like hot plastic and ambition.

I passed walls of retro games, blinking machines screaming for attention, the soft glow of nostalgia wrapped in LCD and grime. I didn’t play anything—I just watched. Took mental snapshots. Noted what was there, and more importantly, what might not be in ten years.

Time’s funny like that. You don’t feel it passing until everything you remember is gone.

Eventually, the adrenaline wore off. I felt it in my legs, in my spine. I’d been running on excitement and vending machine coffee. I needed a break. So I headed back to the Hilton. My temporary sanctuary. Familiar sheets, hot water, silence.

Rest wasn’t just welcome. It was necessary. I was still learning how to be here.

And tomorrow, there’d be more to see.

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Back at the Hilton, I took the elevator to the lounge—VIP access. One of the few luxuries that actually meant something when the real world started to fray at the edges.

I poured a Scotch. Then another.

I wasn’t drinking to celebrate. Not really. I was drinking because I’d been drinking hard for the last three months with brothers-in-arms out in the Middle East. Men who were exhausted, sun-scorched, missing their families, and just trying to keep it together. We didn’t toast much. We just tried to feel normal for a few hours between the shifts and the silence.

But here—back in civilization, back in Tokyo—I felt it coming on. The unraveling.

I didn’t go to the bar. I didn’t chase women. I didn’t make bad decisions that would leave scars. I stayed in the room.

And I broke down.

Not loudly. Not violently. Just enough.

My hands shook. My breath turned shallow. The room started to close in—but the view was still there. Tokyo at night, glowing beneath me. I stared out the window. I waited 18 goddamn years for this moment. I should have felt triumphant. I should have felt something like joy.

Instead, I cried.

Because my wife—my partner, the one who should have stood beside me—wanted to take this away. She didn’t understand why I needed this trip. Why I couldn’t just come straight home like a well-trained dog. She couldn’t see how close to the edge I was.

Or maybe she did. And didn’t care.

Before I boarded that plane, for the first time, I truly considered divorce. Not out of hate. Out of clarity. We weren’t a team. She couldn’t handle me traveling—and maybe she just couldn’t handle me.

She was coming off her time in the Navy, starting over with a low-paying job, clawing her way toward General Atomics. I wanted to be supportive. I tried. But I was broken, too. Worn thin by life, by deployments, by the thousand compromises we both stopped counting.

We didn’t fight fair anymore. She barked. She projected. She’d unravel, and I’d be expected to play therapist, husband, and punching bag all at once.

This time, though—I barked back.

On the phone, somewhere between accusation and desperation, I raised my voice. Maybe for the first time. I was tired of always being the one to take the hit.

And yeah… maybe if I had flown straight home, things wouldn’t have gotten worse.
But they wouldn’t have gotten better either.

She was a control freak. She hated when I left. She hated when I didn’t bring her. She hated my friends. Especially Rick.

But Rick was there.

I called him, somewhere around Scotch number three. The guy my wife loathed, the guy who’d been through fire with me since high school. He picked up. No judgment. No clichés. Just calm. Just presence.

He talked me down.

The shakes stopped. The room stopped spinning. The noise in my head quieted, just enough.

I climbed into bed, the city still buzzing outside, and for the first time since I got here, I slept.

I made it to Japan.

And the one person who should’ve celebrated with me… scorned me instead.

I didn’t need much. Just support. Just someone who understood the weight I carried.
But she wasn’t that person anymore.

The next morning, I wandered Tokyo with no real plan—just a camera in hand and a quiet ache in my chest.

I made my way toward Edo Castle. I wanted old stones, old wood, old silence. Something ancient to remind me that not everything had to be shiny and fast. The grounds were peaceful—well-kept, precise, surrounded by the quiet discipline Japan is so good at. I snapped photos, experimented with framing and exposure. I wasn’t just sightseeing. I was cataloging. Mapping out a mental grid. For the next time. If there was a next time.

Not far from the castle, I descended into one of the city’s underground malls—those endless subterranean mazes lined with shops, bakeries, and little cafés that smelled like soy and sweetness. A world beneath a world. Tokyo’s layers run deep.

Eventually, I found myself near Tokyo Station.

It’s a beautiful thing—red brick, European curves, standing proudly like a remnant from a different age. It feels like it belongs to another city. Another time. I stopped and stared, appreciating it the way you do when you know you’re about to leave something behind.

But hunger always wins.

I ducked into a building overlooking the station and found a quiet restaurant. No crowd. No pressure. Just me and the weight of tomorrow. The woman handed me an English menu—gracious, no judgment. I ordered curry. Warm, simple, comforting. A meal made for reflection.

Tomorrow I’d go home.

Whatever home meant anymore.

My kids—Ophelia, now Tyler, and little Orion—were waiting. They were still young. Still adaptable. Maybe too young to realize how far I’d gone, and why. I missed them. Ached for them. But this was my reality: I traveled to keep the lights on. To make sure they had what they needed. And yeah, I chased adventure too.

Because I wasn’t getting love at home.

Not anymore.

My wife? She’d made it clear—this wasn’t about us. It was always about her. Her struggles. Her anxiety. Her noise. Her silence. Her rules. Her scorn.

And I couldn’t fix that.

I used to think if I just tried harder, if I came back sooner, if I spoke softer… maybe. But no. Her unhappiness was her own. A storm she refused to name. And it spilled into everything. The kids. The house. The dinner table.

She didn’t do much. Not really.
She cooked. And bitched.
She bitched about cooking.

And when she wasn’t doing that, she was angry at the world. At me. At herself, probably. I’d try to help—give advice, offer solutions—but she didn’t want that. She just wanted someone to blame.

So I sat in a quiet restaurant in Tokyo. Ate curry by myself. Looked out the window.

And realized there was nothing left to fix.

I walked back to the hotel. Took one last glance at the Tokyo skyline. Then I slept.

Because tomorrow, I’d board a plane and fly home.

To what, I still wasn’t sure.

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It was early. The kind of quiet only big cities know—before the trains fill, before the horns start, before the vending machines start to hum louder than your thoughts.

I was heading back to the airport. The same way I came. There’s comfort in symmetry when your life feels like anything but.

This trip—my first to Japan—wasn’t a highlight reel of sushi, temples, and cosplay selfies. It was quieter. More personal. The kind of trip you don’t post much about because you spend most of it stuck in your own head.

I respected my wife enough to want her blessing.
I didn’t get it.

So I got up early and rode the train south to Yokohama. I didn’t know what I was looking for—peace, maybe. Forgiveness. A sign. There was a small park just outside the station, up a hill. Nothing special. No hidden temple or Michelin-star noodle shop. Just some benches. Some silence.

I climbed the hill. Sat down.

And I thought about all of it.

What if I’d never married? What if I’d made Japan my home back in the ’90s, when the itch first started? Could I have been happy? Maybe. I could have chased a job. Married a local girl. Stayed. But even in that dream, I saw the cracks—marrying for visas, chasing novelty instead of meaning. That wasn’t me. Not really.

I did love my family. My kids, without question. Ophelia—now Tyler—and Orion. They were waiting for me back home. Waiting to carve pumpkins and laugh. To have their dad.

And my wife? Sometimes I loved her too. But we were broken. Worse, we were silent about it. She couldn’t give me what I needed, and I couldn’t pretend anymore that everything was fine. I kept waiting for her to calm me, ground me, see me. But all I got was resistance. Projection. Control. Her unhappiness had become the houseguest we all lived with.

Still, leaving them behind to chase freedom? That was the coward’s dream.
And I’m not a coward.

I sat there on that bench and asked myself a hard question: What am I chasing?

Success? Validation? Peace?
Maybe I just wanted to finally say, I made it. That I clawed my way out of nowhere. Paid for my own life. That the boy who started with nothing was now here, in Tokyo, because he earned it.

I didn’t celebrate this trip.
I marked it.

Eventually, time was up. I walked down the hill. Took the train. Boarded my flight. Headed back to San Diego.

Halloween was coming. My kids were waiting for Daddy. And so, I put the costume back on—the husband, the father, the dependable man.

No one knew I’d be back in the Middle East just a month later.

But that’s another story.

2015 – Paris, France

I was working another rotation in the Middle East—same dust, same heat, same fluorescent lights humming over stale coffee. The kind of place where adventure feels like a rumor. I needed an escape, and I wasn’t about to do another solo wander through Europe, lost in my own thoughts and wine-stained journal pages. Not this time.

So I called my sister.

“Anywhere in the world,” I told her. “Name it.”

I had Greece in mind. Islands, grilled octopus, and ouzo-fueled nights. But the news was a mess—riots, geopolitical tension, and something about Russia flexing too close for comfort. We pivoted.

“Brazil,” she said.

God, I love her ambition. But I had to remind her—Brazil, for your first trip abroad? That’s like skydiving before you’ve even looked out the window of a plane. Too big. Too raw. Too beautiful and brutal all at once. She needed something more gentle, more postcard-perfect. A place with croissants, not chaos.

“France?” she offered.

Now we’re talking.

Paris—equal parts romance and rot, where beauty lives next to grime and history whispers through every alley. I booked the flights that night. No turning back. The City of Light was calling, and this time, we’d answer together.

I had to get there first. Land, decompress, and make sure I was ready to receive her. Paris wasn’t the kind of place you stumble into; it deserved a proper entrance. I flew in from Dubai, passing through Venice—Marco Polo Airport, a name far more romantic than the reality of plastic chairs and overpriced espresso.

I reached out to some friends up in Aviano. Old crew. Familiar names that once meant something. But time’s a bastard, and people move on. The warmth you remember fades, and eventually, the calls go unanswered. No hard feelings—just the way life moves.

When I landed in Paris, customs was its usual cold efficiency. There are two ways into the city from Charles de Gaulle: the train or a taxi. I took one look at the train crowd—backpacks, confusion, stairs—and said screw it. The taxi cost me $50, and I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t there to save money; I was there to feel something again.

The hotel was a joke by American standards. Paris doesn’t care about your square footage. The rooms are tight, the beds questionable, but the windows open wide and the street noise below is its own kind of lullaby. Still, I had to upgrade. My sister was coming, and I needed a room that said, “Welcome to France,” not “Try not to touch the walls.”

I stocked the fridge. Local wine, cheap aperitifs, whatever looked interesting. I was still drinking heavy back then—daily, ritualistically. Not to forget anything, just to slow it all down. After months in the Middle East, working twelve and a half hour days, seven days a week, you don’t just stroll into Paris and exhale. You unwind like an old spring—creaky, uneven, but grateful for the release.

Athy would be landing soon. The adventure was about to begin. But first, a drink.

Eventually, she came.

I rode out to the airport to meet her. There she was—duffle bag slung over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd like a traveler and not yet a tourist. She looked a little out of place, but that’s part of the charm when you’re new to the world. You’re not supposed to blend in right away. Paris isn’t judging—it’s too busy being Paris.

We made our way back into the city. I’d booked a room with two beds and a view. The kind of view that makes the room seem bigger than it is. The shower, though—let’s just say it wasn’t made for humans. It was more like a converted closet with plumbing. I had to crouch to get in, twist like a circus act just to rinse off. But it worked. Kind of. That’s Paris: it doesn’t care if you’re comfortable, just whether you’re paying attention.

We sat down, cracked open a bottle from the fridge, and started talking plans. I had ideas. Places I wanted to show her. Not the tourist trail, but the stuff that made the city sing. We didn’t need to overthink it. Walk, eat, drink, repeat.

But to do any of it, we needed to get on the subway.

Welcome to Paris.

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We started by walking—always the best way to meet a city. Toward the center, past cafés warming up for the day, past tourists holding maps they didn’t need. Eventually, we reached Notre-Dame. We stood there, took it in, nodded, and moved on. Didn’t go in.

In retrospect? That was a mistake.

You always think there’s time. You’ll come back tomorrow, next trip, next year. But years later, we watched the cathedral burn on the news. A part of history turned to smoke. That’s when you learn—save nothing for later. If you can see it today, do it. Tomorrow doesn’t care about your plans.

Not far from there, we looked for another church—less famous, more intimate. Sainte-Chapelle? No. The Conciergerie. That’s the one. A real dungeon dressed up in Gothic stone, where Marie Antoinette spent her final days before the blade. They kept much of it as it was—dim, heavy, honest. You could still feel the cold in the air, the weight of waiting. This wasn’t just sightseeing. This was memory, preserved in limestone.

We walked the Seine, watched boats drift under old bridges, and let the city unfold. But eventually, Athy got hungry. Her first full day in France was wearing on her.

So, Italian food.

Of all the things to eat in Paris, we chose something familiar. Not because we were afraid, but because comfort matters when you’re far from home. I knew it wouldn’t be Olive Garden. No breadsticks. No endless salad. This was the real deal—tight tables, loud conversation, pasta with backbone.

Athy ordered something safe. Her first real meal in France was Italian.

And honestly? It was perfect.

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I was told—by a friend of a friend, a flight steward with United Airlines and the kind of guy who knows where to go when you’re off-duty in Paris—“Go to the Luxembourg Gardens.”

So we did.

It’s not Versailles, and that’s the point. No tourist cattle drive, no marathon hike. Just quiet elegance in the middle of the city. Sculpted trees, fountains whispering in the breeze, old men playing chess while pigeons pretend they don’t care. We walked, we wandered, we absorbed. Paris at half-speed. Exactly what we needed.

But hours later, the calm was replaced by a familiar sound—Athy’s stomach rumbling.

She was hungry. Not for culture. For food.

That’s when it happened. She asked for Subway.

Yeah, that Subway. Sandwiches, chips, the safe American fallback.

I didn’t blame her. When everything around you is foreign, even a mediocre sandwich chain can feel like a warm blanket. But the moment she bit in, her face changed. Confused. Curious. “It’s… different.”

Of course it was. The bread didn’t taste the same. The chips weren’t quite right. The Coke had real sugar—actual sugar, not the chemical cocktail we’re used to back home. Europe doesn’t do food like we do. Even the fast stuff is slower, more honest. Athy was stunned. Mind blown by a sandwich.

And that’s the magic of travel. You expect awe at the Louvre. You don’t expect it at Subway.

As the light faded, we drifted back to the hotel. The buzz of the city softening behind us. Tomorrow, we’d meet up with one of her high school friends—a slice of home crossing paths with our Parisian detour. But tonight, it was enough to just be still. Let the jet lag do its thing. Let the city breathe.

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We met her friend on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, that gleaming white basilica perched like a crown over Montmartre. It’s the kind of place that feels like it belongs on a postcard—or a movie set. And for Athy, it was everything. A high school friend studying abroad in Paris? That’s the kind of subplot you only get in coming-of-age films. It added something cinematic to the trip. Real-life Emily in Paris stuff, minus the clichés and bad French.

The three of us stood on that hill, the city laid out below us like a promise. I was the older brother, the third wheel, the accidental chaperone. But I didn’t mind. This was her moment. I was just the one who got her there.

We wandered up into the church, hushed and glowing. Even if you’re not religious, it grabs you. The air feels thick with something older than belief—maybe history, maybe memory. The marble, the mosaics, the silence—it all hits different when you’re not racing through it. I half-joked about the steps being from John Wick 4. You remember that final scene, right? The endless stairs, the beatdown? Maybe it was here. Paris blurs fiction and reality so effortlessly, who’s to say?

Eventually, stomachs growled. Time to eat.

I was buying. That much was certain.

So we went French.

No safe choices this time. No Italian reruns or American sandwich chains. We leaned into the country we were in. Cheese that didn’t come in plastic. Bread with real crunch. Duck confit that whispered its secrets to your taste buds. I don’t remember everything we ate, but I remember how it felt—like we’d finally stopped being tourists and started being in Paris.

That night, it wasn’t just a meal. It was a chapter.

Her friend led us to this little open-air restaurant tucked on a side street—no neon signs, no laminated menus, just worn chairs, real tablecloths, and that soft clatter of cutlery and conversation that only happens when the food is honest and the wine is flowing.

We sat outside, under the glow of heat lamps and fading sunlight, and finally—finally—got a taste of what French cooking was really about. This wasn’t tourist fare. This was the kind of place where the waiter doesn’t rush, the courses come when they come, and time folds in on itself.

I ordered a bottle of red. A proper one. And at that point in my life, I could—and often did—polish off the whole thing solo. I was halfway to toasted before the entrées even arrived. Not sloppy, just loose enough to let the city wash over me.

And then came the snails.

Escargot—the dish everyone jokes about, turns their nose up at, swears they’d never try. But you should. You really should. They arrive swimming in garlic and butter, tucked into little ceramic graves. You scoop them out with this weird metal tool, and the first bite… it’s not what you expect. Earthy. Like mushrooms dressed in garlic armor. Pure comfort.

Athy was brave. She took a bite. Made a face. Took another. She liked it. I saw that spark. I was proud of her—not just for trying snails, but for leaning into the moment.

After a while, I let the conversation drift past me. Her and her friend were catching up, laughing, reminiscing. I didn’t need to talk. I just sat there, sipping the last of the wine, content. I wasn’t in Paris alone. I was watching something beautiful unfold.

We said our goodbyes and made our way back to the hotel, the streets a little quieter, the night a little softer.

Athy was happy.

And me?

I was just glad to see people happy.

I try to catch what I can along the way. I’ve never been the type to plan every hour, but there are certain things you don’t skip—touchstones you make time for. The Paris Opera House was one of them. That grand, gold-trimmed temple to drama and elegance. I’d always wanted to see it in person. You can take tours—for a price, of course—but this trip, I had other things locked in. Another time, maybe.

We emerged from the subway into the pulse of the city. Paris doesn’t ease you in—it throws you into the deep end. You climb those metro steps and bam: history, architecture, life happening in real time.

We walked from the stop toward the Louvre. One of those walks where the city just unfolds in front of you like it’s performing for your arrival. I had booked us a guided tour—not to be fancy, but to skip the line and get the real story behind all the stone faces and oil paint. You don’t just wander into the Louvre and “figure it out.” That place will swallow you whole if you don’t have a plan.

The guide was there, waiting. A fast pass to civilization’s greatest hits. I could see Athy’s eyes wide, absorbing centuries in a single hallway. That’s the thing about travel—you’re not just seeing things. You’re feeling them. And that walk from the metro to the museum? That was the prelude. The city setting the stage.

I’d seen it on TV. In movies. In art books stacked on coffee tables I never actually read. The Louvre—this wasn’t just a museum. It had star power. The kind of place that carries weight, even if you’ve never set foot in it.

The Mona Lisa lived here. That smirk, that guarded gaze—you don’t even have to like art to know her. She’s a celebrity behind glass.

We made our way in, past the security, under that glass pyramid that juts out like a modern scar on ancient stone. You catch just the top of it from outside, but from within, it’s like stepping through a portal. A strange, beautiful contradiction. Steel and glass above, marble and oil below.

The museum itself was cool—not just in temperature, but in presence. Even the air felt cultured. This was a cathedral for humanity’s creativity. Every corner whispered with centuries of expression, obsession, ego, and divinity. And we were in it.

Wandering its halls, you don’t just see art—you feel small in the best way. Like you’ve joined a conversation that’s been going on for thousands of years, and for once, you’re not in a rush to speak.

I couldn’t believe what we were seeing.

There she was—Venus de Milo. No arms. No head. Just defiance in marble form. A woman carved out of stone who, despite missing pieces, still commanded the room. We stood there, quiet. It hits you different when you’re in front of it. Not a photo. Not a slide from art history class. Her.

Around the corner—Saint John the Baptist. A Da Vinci, but not the one everyone lines up for. Subtle, shadowed, almost smirking. One of those paintings that feels like it’s watching you back. Not a crowd-pleaser, but it didn’t need to be. It was layered and strange and brilliant.

And then, the chaos of the French Revolution. Massive canvases telling stories soaked in blood, fire, and idealism. The kind of art that doesn’t just hang—it roars. You remember the dates, the names, the guillotines from school. But here, they weren’t just facts. They were textures, color, oil, and brushstrokes. Real.

Everything I learned in textbooks, tucked between exams and note margins, was suddenly standing in front of me. Solid. Breathing. Eternal.

It was like waking up in the middle of a story you didn’t realize you were already part of.

This museum—The Louvre—was the gift that kept on giving. Every turn down those endless halls felt like stumbling into a piece of history you didn’t expect. The kind that makes you stop mid-step and whisper, “No way… that’s really it?”

And then we came upon it—Napoleon’s Coronation.

A beast of a painting. Floor to ceiling, opulent and alive. You could almost hear the trumpets. Napoleon placing the crown on his own head, because of course he did. That wasn’t ego—that was branding. This wasn’t just a painting. It was propaganda with brushstrokes. French history at its most dramatic, and we were standing in the same room.

Then came The Wedding at Cana. Massive. Beautiful. So big it felt like a movie set frozen in oil. But as impressive as it was, we knew what was behind us.

The Mona Lisa.

The crowd thickened. You could feel the hum, the anticipation, like standing in line for a roller coaster you’ve heard about your whole life. Small room. Thick glass. Barriers. Security. And there she was.

Tiny. Underwhelming in size. Overwhelming in presence.

That smirk. That quiet confidence. That look like she knows something about you that you don’t.

You wait a lifetime to see her—and when you do—it’s not about what she looks like. It’s about where you are, who you’re with, and what it took to stand in front of her.

And for a moment, in that crowded room filled with cameras and hushed voices, it all made sense.

When you walk into that room, you know.

There she is—The Mona Lisa. No guessing, no buildup needed. The crowd tells you. The energy shifts. You’re not just walking into a gallery; you’re entering a shrine. She’s the most famous painting of our generation. A cultural icon. Not because she’s the biggest or the most colorful—but because she’s her.

She was stolen once. Lifted straight from the Louvre and later returned, and in that act, her legend was born. Not just a portrait, but a myth. Immortalized not just in art, but in heist stories, pop culture, and conspiracy theories. She’s been everything from high art to t-shirt graphics. And there she was—right in front of us.

Smaller than expected. Tucked behind thick glass and roped off like royalty. You couldn’t get close enough to see the brushwork. Couldn’t trace the strokes of Da Vinci’s hand. But that didn’t matter. Just being in her presence felt… important. Like ticking off a box on the life list.

This—this—was the reason I came inside. And it was worth it.

But art waits for no appetite. Not long after, Athy tugged at my arm. “I’m hungry.”

The Louvre cafeteria wasn’t going to cut it. Not for her. So we left, the museum slowly vanishing behind us as we stepped back into the noise and breath of the city.

Looking back, all it did was leave me with more to explore next time. More wings. More paintings. More pieces of history waiting in the quiet.

I’ll be back.

I hauled my professional DSLR and a heavy tripod all the way across the world—because some things, you just have to shoot properly. It wasn’t just about snapshots. This was my craft, my way of absorbing a place, slowing it down frame by frame.

That night, back at the hotel, we didn’t just crash. We headed out again, walked beneath the quiet Parisian sky, streetlights flickering like they’d been waiting just for us. Destination: the Arc de Triomphe.

You’ve seen it before—in movies, in history books, framed in the background of someone else’s vacation. But nothing prepares you for standing in front of it. It’s more than stone. It’s memory carved into architecture. Massive, proud, unapologetically French.

I set up the tripod right there along the Champs-Élysées. Clicked the shutter. Waited. Long exposure. Let the cars blur into red and white trails of light. Let the night speak through the lens.

This was my kind of moment—quiet, patient, creative. Athy nearby, the city humming around us. The air had that cool weight of something unforgettable.

I wasn’t disappointed. Not for a second.

These weren’t just photos. They were proof. That we were here. That this happened. And they’d outlive the trip. Outlive the hangovers, the train rides, the missed turns and tired feet.

They were mine to keep. Forever.

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I had a reservation—a real one—for a restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. Not just dinner, but the kind of moment you build a whole trip around. Fancy clothes, table with a view, the whole cinematic experience.

But life, like Paris, doesn’t always go according to script.

Earlier that day, we walked the Champ de Mars. Sunlight catching the iron lattice of the tower in all the right ways. We snapped a few photos, took it in. I crushed a beer at the base, as is tradition—every monument gets one. This time it was a European IPA—light, crisp, not the California hop bombs I was used to. Just enough to say cheers to history.

Jet lag was creeping in like fog. We staggered back to the hotel, grabbed a quick nap, then got dressed—pressed shirts, decent shoes, looking like we had somewhere to be. Because we did.

But Paris had other plans.

The metro betrayed us. Wrong train, wrong line, time slipping through our fingers like sand. We never made it. Never went up the tower. No toast over the Seine. Just missed chances and the humbling lesson that not every box gets checked.

We walked it off. The night was still ours, just less polished.

“Athy,” I asked, “what do you feel like eating?”

She looked at me, shrugged, and said: “Pizza Hut.”

And you know what? That was fine. Paris, even at its most disappointing, still beats just about anywhere else. Dinner wasn’t high above the city, but we were still there—wandering, laughing, tired, and together. And maybe that’s the real postcard.

I think Athy had this image in her head—European Pizza Hut, classy, maybe even candlelit. A sit-down joint where the crusts are flakier and the Coke comes in glass bottles. But no, this wasn’t that. This was counter-service, plastic trays, no-frills. Just… Pizza Hut. Abroad.

But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be special.

We grabbed the pizza, boxed and steaming, and I told her we were taking it somewhere better. We walked, just the two of us, through the dim-lit streets of Paris until we found a spot by the river. The Seine, flowing like it has for centuries, with couples strolling, boats drifting, and the kind of effortless nighttime magic that only Paris seems to do without trying.

We sat down. Opened the box. Took in the scene.

Eating pizza in Paris—that’s what made it cool. Not the brand, not the crust, but the moment. A cheap dinner turned into something memorable. Something honest. Something ours.

No dress code. No tower views. Just us, the city, and a greasy slice shared by the water.

Then, like all good stories, the night ended. We walked back in silence, full—not just from food—but from something better.

We called it a night. And it was perfect.

The next day was wide open. No plans, no tickets, just space to breathe. I made time to go see my Father in Law, Larry, who was traveling through France on his way to Romania. I valued him. I valued our time. I made sure to see him, even if we would see him back in the states.

In the evening, I took the opportunity to meet up with an old friend—one of the stewards from United Airlines. Solid guy. Reliable. The kind of person who remembers how things used to be and still meets you there.

He brought a few of his friends along. I noticed right away they were of a particular circle—tight-knit, sharp, and unapologetically themselves. That didn’t bother me in the slightest. We were welcomed in like regulars, not tourists. No pretenses. Just food, drinks, and conversation.

We ate. We caught up. Talked about life, travel, the absurdities of the job. Somewhere between the wine and the stories, I turned to him and apologized—for how I’d handled things with his friend. A woman I dated, someone I hadn’t treated with the grace she deserved. I told him it was on me, not her. If she ever said hi, I’d return the kindness. But we wouldn’t be grabbing coffee. Some chapters are meant to stay closed.

The guys and I kept talking. My sister, Athy, listened. Took it all in. I think she saw something in that—me owning up to the past, setting things right. We celebrated the trip, the city, the fact that for once, none of us were alone in it.

The next morning came too soon.

Athy boarded a flight back to Pennsylvania. I headed home to San Diego. Mission accomplished—we’d seen a beautiful city, together. I didn’t have to experience it in silence or through my camera lens alone. I got to share it, and that made all the difference.

What I didn’t know then was that it would be my last major trip to the Middle East. That when I returned home, I’d be done. The job, the rotations, the desert miles—all of it. I’d had enough. Not because I was broken, but because something else needed fixing.

My family.

My marriage was already fragile, the distance like a chisel widening the cracks. But it wasn’t just that. It was the kids. They needed me. Their mother—she was struggling. Falling apart in ways I didn’t fully understand until I got back.

And that’s when I knew: my time for running was over.

No more planes. No more contracts. No more chasing foreign streets for clarity.

The mission had changed. And this time, it was personal.

2004 – Germany

I was 24. Born May 1980 — right between Reagan and MTV, raised on processed food and Cold War fallout. By the time I landed in Germany, I’d been through Air Force tech school, had a rack at Keesler for nine months, and could fix a radio faster than I could figure out my own life.

I was living with my Korean family in Philadelphia — part sitcom, part survival. They loved me, in their own way. The food was good, and the expectations were heavy. I was stationed at Willow Grove, pulling full-time duty in a part-time war. Technically “on orders,” which is military-speak for “we need you, but not enough to commit.” I worked all day, went to school at night, and spent most of my time wondering who the hell I was supposed to be.

I was skinny, wired like a live cable, full of caffeine and ambition. The kind of ambition that doesn’t really know what it wants — just that it wants more. More than Lansdale. More than camo and chow halls and those sterile little rooms we called “billeting.”

I worked with the 270th Engineering and Installation Squadron — wire-pullers, radio riggers, the kind of people who actually kept the lights on when things fell apart. Blue-collar tech warriors. I didn’t have a grand mission. I had orders. And a plane ticket to Germany for two weeks of annual training — government-sponsored tourism with a side of gas mask drills.

I’d studied German for four years in high school. Never got to take the class trip. Couldn’t afford it. Watching other kids fly across the Atlantic while I bagged groceries or scraped together book money. Now, finally, I was here. Ramstein. Concrete and chain-link, bratwurst stands, beer colder than truth. It wasn’t Berlin. It wasn’t the postcard. It was real.

And maybe that was the point.

I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. I knew how to speak in radio code, clean a weapon, salute an officer, and bullshit my way through an enlisted man’s checklist. But I didn’t know me yet. Not really.

All I knew was: I was 24, in uniform, in Germany — far from Philly, far from the version of myself I used to imagine. And for once, that felt like enough.

The trip started at Willow Grove — a sleepy little air station tucked north of Philly, more rust than glory, more Wawa than war zone. But it was ours. A place where part-time warriors like us punched in, suited up, and tried to make sense of two worlds: the civilian hustle and the uniformed grind.

We had a KC-135 ready to haul us across the Atlantic — an old tanker that smelled like jet fuel, sweat, and too many years of duct-tape solutions. Destination: Ramstein, Germany. Purpose: two weeks of annual training. Reality: a break from whatever mess we were trying to hold together back home.

From my shop, there were four of us going. Luster. Ransom. Myself. And… Whittiack? Something like that. He was the guy nobody really wanted there, but someone high enough up decided he was “mission essential.” There’s always one.

Luster and Ransom — they were my guys. Heroes, in their own way. We drilled together, ran cables together, bitched about the chow together. Ransom was up at Bloomsburg for school, still figuring out the civilian track. Luster, drifting somewhere in Philly, trying to find his lane but solid. The kind of guy who didn’t say much, but when he did, you listened.

We were young. Not invincible, but close enough. We were ready — or at least, Ransom was. He boarded the bird with a goddamn six-foot-long Subway sandwich like it was a tactical weapon. He knew something we didn’t. He had foresight. The rest of us? Starving halfway over the Atlantic, staring at him like wolves circling the last deer on Earth.

He broke off chunks of that sandwich like communion. Grudgingly generous. I think he still had two feet left when we hit cruising altitude. Nobody else brought a damn thing.

Whittiack — or whatever his name was — sat awkwardly, trying to wedge himself into our rhythm. He talked too much, said weird shit, asked questions no one wanted to answer. But he was in the seat, too. Headed to the same place.

At 35,000 feet, we floated above the clouds, strapped into that steel tube, joking, half-sleeping, not quite understanding the gravity of what it meant to fly to Germany in a uniform.

But we were excited. Giddy, even. Somewhere between military precision and barely-contained boyhood. We had orders. We had each other. And for a moment — somewhere over the cold Atlantic — that felt like enough.

UConn to play men's basketball in Germany.

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Landstuhl with Nanstein Castle at sunset

We touched down at Ramstein — the biggest patch of American soil in Europe without technically being America. Gray skies, the smell of jet exhaust, that military buzz in the air like something important is just about to happen. It never really does. But that feeling hums like power lines overhead.

They bused us over to Landstuhl — the hospital complex, the kind of place you don’t want to end up unless you’re visiting. It served the wounded, the sick, the dependents, the forgotten. A European lifeline for American uniforms. We weren’t there for the beds. Just the lodging. A barracks building they tossed us into for our two-week war vacation.

I remember staring out the bus window, watching the forest and old-world rooftops pass by, and daydreaming like I always did. What would it have been like to grow up here? To be a military brat with a mom who was a captain, a dad who was a major? Fluently bouncing between English and German, taking school trips to Paris like they were nothing, knowing how to drink by 14 and lie about it convincingly by 15.

But those were just daydreams. I wasn’t a lifer’s kid — I was a Philly transplant wearing someone else’s legacy on my chest. And I wasn’t single, either. Had a girlfriend back home. She knows who she was. I wasn’t here to chase women.

But my friends? Oh, they were hunting.

And we had one ace up the sleeve — me. Four years of high school German tucked in the back of my brain like a half-loaded magazine. Ich spreche ein bisschen. Enough to buy a beer. Maybe enough to help the guys get a phone number or two, if I played translator right. I didn’t make promises. Just smirks and shrugs.

We dumped our gear in the room — cold tile floors, government-issued sheets, and that subtle scent of mildew that never quite leaves. The kind of room that tells you, you’re not staying long… but long enough to forget your zip code.

The walk down to town was long — a winding road, lined with trees that had probably watched more airmen pass than anyone could count. We were broke. The per diem was a laughable eight bucks. The Euro was crushing the dollar like a bully stealing lunch money.

But we didn’t care. We were 24, in uniform, in Germany. We had feet, curiosity, and no real plan. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

So we walked down into Landstuhl — hungry, restless, wide-eyed. The night was waiting. And we were ready to meet it.

We didn’t know where we were going — just that we had landed. Germany. Our first night. And like all young men with uniforms and too much testosterone, we followed the glowing lights and basslines into whatever the town had waiting for us.

The first place we found open? A damn strip club. Of course. Neon signs, promises in bad English, and the smell of smoke and perfume that never quite leaves your clothes. “Boys, this is it,” someone said — probably Ransom. And like fools, we walked in thinking this was going to be like back home. Toss a dollar, get a wink. A harmless dance and maybe a cheap thrill before calling it a night.

But this wasn’t the States. This was Europe. The rules were different. More expensive. Less forgiving.

We sat down and immediately learned the hustle. You didn’t tip a girl. You bought her a drink. Twenty-five bucks a pop. That was the game. Talk, flirt, smile, sip. They didn’t dance. They didn’t need to. They talked you out of your money — professionally, politely, and with laser focus.

These weren’t German girls either. They were Eastern European — Poland, Romania, maybe Ukraine. Young, beautiful, hard as nails. Eyes like glass. They knew we were easy targets. And we were. We came in with $8 a day per diem and big dumb dreams. The whole place was designed to extract every cent we had — and it worked.

Before long, we were broke. Our entire week’s budget bled out on overpriced drinks and soft promises. Ransom disappeared into a back room. The owner stopped me before I could check on him. “No boom boom,” he said. “Not unless you pay.”

The place had turned. The lights were still dim, but the illusion was gone. It wasn’t a bar. It was a machine. The girls were cogs. We were coins. I pulled the guys out with the oldest excuse in the book: “We’re going to the ATM.”

We didn’t go back.

Outside, Ransom laughed like he’d seen the face of God. “One girl tried to get me to pay $300,” he said. “Anything I wanted. All night. Even in the butt.”

For a broke airman who couldn’t get a second date back in Pennsylvania, that sounded like a dream. But for the rest of us, $300 might as well have been $3,000. We weren’t players. We were just dumb, horny kids trying to feel something.

I still felt responsible. I was the guy who spoke German. The “cultural expert.” The one who was supposed to navigate. So I led us down another road and found another place — a red light glowing faintly in the distance. That had to mean something. Right?

It was quieter inside. Softer. An older Asian woman — mid-40s maybe, maybe older — in elegant lingerie, approached us with a kind smile and a cold beer. A white ale. My first. Smooth, light, comforting. Like someone telling you it was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t.

She leaned in, said kind things, poured us more drinks. She wasn’t hustling, at least not as hard. Maybe she saw through the bravado. Maybe she was tired. Maybe we reminded her of sons she never had — or did. I gave her a few Euros for the jukebox. Let her pick the song. She leaned on my arm like we were old friends.

Older me would have handled it differently. Would’ve asked better questions. Would’ve tipped better. Would’ve known it was all a show, but still appreciated the kindness in the performance. But I was 24. In a relationship. Dumb and uncertain. She gave me something I didn’t expect — perspective.

Not sex. Not fantasy. Just a quiet reminder that the world doesn’t spin for your amusement. People are playing for keeps. This was her job. Her hustle. She didn’t care about our stories, our uniforms, our half-lives back home. She cared about survival.

We left, buzzed and broke, but not empty. I walked the boys back, navigating the turns like I’d been there before. I was the compass. The only one sober enough to see straight.

Tomorrow we’d wake up early, hungover, slightly ashamed, and slide into gas masks. Pretending we were soldiers. Pretending we were ready.

We weren’t. But we were learning.

Training. Of course.

They had to justify flying four hungover E-3s across the Atlantic on taxpayer money, so they gave us the usual theater. Chemical warfare. MOPP gear. Gas masks. Rubber gloves. The whole sweaty, suffocating ensemble designed to make you question every decision that led you to this point.

It was hot. It was boring. It was miserable.
And it was all bullshit.

We weren’t going to war. Not yet. We were just cogs in a peacetime machine that needed to look busy for someone up the chain. So there we were — half-alive, dehydrated, reeking of beer and shame from the night before, sweating in our charcoal-lined suits while some senior NCO barked about nerve agents.

We weren’t listening. Not really.

Our heads were still in Landstuhl. In that first bar. In that second bar. In that moment where someone leaned close, laughed at our jokes, and made us feel like kings — even if it was all for Euros. Back here, there were no smiles. No flirtation. Just layers of rubber and protocol.

There were no girls. No jukeboxes. No cold white ale.

Just dudes. Rows of them. Standing in formation, baking in black suits that smelled like old tires and regret. The air tasted like sweat and bureaucracy. We passed the time the way you do in the military — badly. Dumb jokes. Elbow nudges. Silent prayers that someone would call it early.

We wanted off this base.

We wanted cobblestone streets. Outdoor tables. The sound of German pop music playing softly through open bar doors. We wanted to be where things felt alive — not this sterilized military complex where time stood still and everything smelled like diesel and floor wax.

The training dragged on. And we endured it. Not because we cared, but because it was the price of freedom. If we did this — sat through the briefings, wore the gear, answered the checklists — then they’d cut us loose. Let us go to other parts of the base. Maybe even back into town.

We were 24-year-old kids in uniform, chasing shadows of adventure with lint in our pockets. But damn it, we were chasing something.

And that meant sitting through another hour of someone pointing at a diagram of a chemical burn while our minds wandered somewhere back to the red lights and the music and that first, cold beer.

The per diem was a joke. Eight bucks a day in Europe — barely enough for a schnitzel, let alone the night we wanted to have. But the military giveth and the military taketh away. What it didn’t pay in cash, it made up for in fuel. We had a government truck with a DoD gas card and zero oversight. Unlimited gas. Unlimited potential.

That truck was our lifeline.

As long as we refueled on base, we could go as far as time would allow. And so we did.

We drove to Kaiserslautern — K-Town, as the Americans called it. Old Germany wrapped in modern camouflage. Stone roads. Church spires. Dusty windows with neon beer signs barely lit. The kind of place where you could find something if you looked hard enough — or just got lost on purpose.

That first night, we just scoped it out. No wild plans. Just reconnaissance. We’d be back.

We still had work to do.

After our mandatory MOPP torture, they broke us up and assigned us to different corners of the base. I ended up with the comm squadron — the ones who kept the base humming with radios, cables, and quiet stress. Nothing glamorous. But I could speak the language — not just German, but the shorthand of switches and signal paths.

And there, I saw him.

A guy I knew from tech school. We’d shared barracks, beers, stories. Now, he barely looked up. He was stationed there full-time, settled into the grind. He didn’t need me anymore. Didn’t want to need anyone. I tried to catch up, crack a joke. He gave me the polite nod — the kind that says “I remember you, but I’ve moved on.”

It stung. Quietly. In that deep, familiar way rejection always does.
I wondered if I had been a bad friend, or just forgettable.

That was a powerful little truth to chew on while pulling Cat5 and taking orders from a crusty old TSgt who’d stopped caring in ‘98.

The week dragged like a loaded rucksack. Sleep. Work. Pretend. Drive. Rinse. Repeat.

Every day was the same. Every day we waited for Thursday.

The town was still out there. The beer. The music. The promise. The sense that something — anything — could happen. Friday wasn’t just a day. It was freedom. A permission slip to feel alive again, even if just for a few hours before sunrise.

And we were getting close.

We came back to Kaiserslautern with a mission: to dance. To party. To forget about gas masks and per diem and the kind of existential rot that grows in barracks rooms with no Wi-Fi. I started searching for “dance clubs” in German — “tanzen” this, “tanzen” that — and all I found was a goddamn dance school. A place with mirrors and instructors, not drinks and poor decisions. That wasn’t the vibe.

So we pre-gamed the only way broke airmen can: with a pub crawl.

We hit every bar we could find that didn’t have a dress code or a cover charge. One of them stood out. Real colorful place. Clowns on the walls. Rainbows dangling from the ceiling like leftover party decorations no one had the guts to take down.

I had to piss — a few beers deep, riding that perfect buzz where you can still string sentences together but you’re on the edge. I stumbled into the bathroom, zipped down, and stared straight ahead like you do. Then I saw it: the flyer on the wall. Half-naked men. Glitter. Event dates.

Oh shit.

Gay bar.

Now look — I’m not saying it mattered. Not to me. But back then? With a truck full of 20-something airmen raised on testosterone and bad porn, this wasn’t going to land gently. Especially not with Ransom and Luster. Whittiack? Honestly, he might’ve been into it. Good for him if he was. But I didn’t stick around to workshop the conversation.

I zipped up and came back with that NCO tone in my voice: “Alright, time to move on, boys.”
No questions asked. Just clowns, beers, and one slightly confused exit.

We bounced between more bars, running into a crew of Army guys along the way. God bless the Army. Comrades in arms. Same bad haircuts, same cheap deodorant, same thirst for trouble. We drank like long-lost brothers. Poured stories into our beers and forgot who owed who a round.

Eventually, everyone got sloppy.

People forgot where we parked, where we were, what day it was. Except me. I remembered — somehow — that we left the truck by an Aldi. That little miracle of memory might’ve been the only reason we didn’t end up arrested, missing, or face-down in some ditch on the edge of town.

As we made our way back, an older German couple started walking with us — drunk, friendly, just as lost in the night as we were. The woman? She was very friendly. Started groping us, one by one, laughing like it was some kind of twisted game show. She grabbed my ass. I think. Or maybe someone else’s. Hard to tell. But no one stopped her.

We let it happen. Maybe for the attention. Maybe for the story. Maybe just to keep the weirdness rolling.

I loaded the guys into the truck like a clown car full of military dysfunction. Dropped off the Army boys at their base. Swapped phone numbers we’d never call. Said goodbyes that felt way too meaningful for people we’d just met.

Then Friday hit.

We found the club — A6. The one people talked about. The name sounded like a European highway and it kind of was — a direct road to disappointment. I thought it’d be German techno, pulsing bass, fog machines, and glow sticks. But it was just another American outpost. Fluorescent Bud Lights. Military ID checks. That same damn Nelly song playing on repeat.

It catered to the American need to feel cool while being surrounded by people just like them.

There weren’t many locals. Just us. A beer or two in, we realized this wasn’t going to lead anywhere. No love stories. No legendary hookups. Just sweat and bass and that creeping hangover lurking in the corners.

We danced a little. We stood around more. We called it.

Sleep won.

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We had a truck. That was our freedom. Our escape pod. No one cared where we went, as long as we fueled up on base and didn’t crash it into a castle.

Back then, navigation wasn’t an app. It wasn’t a voice telling you when to turn. The only map I had was tucked into the back of my dog-eared German-English dictionary — a single-page layout of highways and cities I couldn’t pronounce. No GPS. Just instincts, road signs, and a good guess.

Our phones? Nokia bricks. Good for Snake and not much else. No Google Maps. No real-time traffic. Just the open road and some dumb confidence.

But I loved it. That feeling of not knowing exactly where you were — and not caring. I became the default driver. The guy behind the wheel. The one who paid attention to the way back. The compass. That’s what I gave the team. Not swagger, not jokes, just the guarantee that we’d get home safe.

So we headed north.

Out of Ramstein, up the Autobahn — that mythical road where speed limits are optional and everything looks like a postcard. We passed through the kind of places that felt older than memory. Mountains. Fog. Slate rooftops. Towns that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries, just quietly enduring between valleys.

We rolled through Bitburg. That name meant nothing to me at the time — just a blur on the side of a road, a brewery we didn’t stop at. But it stayed in my head. The logo. The signage. The way the town looked like it knew something I didn’t. Years later, Bitburger would become one of my favorite beers, and I’d trace it all the way back to that drive.

Trier came next — old Roman city, history crumbling into cobblestone. We parked and walked. Not much money to spend, just broke airmen window-shopping through a thousand years of culture. But sometimes, that’s all you need. The smell of street bread. The sound of a foreign language you almost understand. The feeling that you’re somewhere else — really else.

On the way back, we swung through Spangdahlem. Another Air Force base. Clean. Tidy. Game room. Commissary. Everything you wanted, if you didn’t care how sterile it all felt. It was a good fallback — a place to tuck away in your head for a rainy day. I filed it under “escape routes” and moved on.

By now, though, we were really getting sick of Whittiak.

Every group’s got one — the guy who doesn’t get it, doesn’t vibe, doesn’t know when to shut up. He wasn’t a bad guy. Just… out of sync. Like a wrong frequency playing in the background of a song you liked. You start to tune it out at first. Then it starts to ruin the song.

The road back was quiet. We were tired. But it was the good kind of tired — earned, not wasted.

We had miles behind us. Mountains in the rearview.
And tomorrow, we’d do it all over again.

The Spangdahlem Air Base main gate is shown in Mar

I tried to get us on the trains. Thought it’d be the “European thing to do.” Rail passes. Gliding past castles with a baguette in hand, like some backpacking daydream.

But German trains weren’t built for broke American airmen with $8 a day. Too expensive. Too confusing. No Google Maps, no apps, just paper timetables and words with way too many syllables. Driving? Still king. At least behind the wheel, I had control. I had a mission.

But something else had to go.

Whittiak.

Our fourth man. The tagalong no one invited. Annoying in ways that didn’t make sense until you spent five straight days with him. He didn’t do anything — just existed wrong. Off-beat. Loud in quiet moments. Quiet when you needed him to speak. The kind of guy who made a three-person trip feel like a group therapy session.

So we hatched a plan.
Ransom. Luster. Me.

“Meet at the truck,” I told Ransom. “We’re rolling out. Just us.”

Luster was already in the passenger seat, engine running like a getaway car. Ransom? Still in the barracks, trying to shake off Whittiak like gum stuck to his shoe.

Then I saw it.

Ransom, full sprint — the kind of run that says “I’m not missing this.”
Right behind him — Whittiak, giving chase like some sad, determined villain in a low-budget buddy film.

Door open.
Ransom dives in.
And just like that — SLAM.

Rearview mirror: one confused, breathless Whittiak left standing in the dust.

And us?

Free.

It felt like parole. The air was lighter. The jokes hit better. The truck was finally ours — back to the core three. No weird commentary. No sighs. No dragging weight. Just laughter and purpose.

With that freedom came obligation. I wanted to give them a good time. I wanted to make the most of the trip. So I did what any broke-ass, guilt-ridden navigator would do — I drove us back to Spangdahlem.

Not glamorous. But it worked.

The base was quiet. Clean. Familiar. It had a game room with those old-school arcade cabinets that made you forget where you were for a second. Games where nothing mattered but timing and reflex. We blew off steam. Laughed like kids again.

I walked the commissary alone for a while — shelves stacked with the comforts of home. Cereal boxes. Doritos. BBQ sauce. Little pockets of America, shipped across the ocean for the homesick and hungry. It was weirdly beautiful. A reminder that someone, somewhere, wanted to make life livable for the uniformed.

And in those quiet aisles, I thought about things.

About how I probably should’ve gone active duty. About how this life — the structure, the purpose, the clarity — felt good. Clean. Predictable in a way civilian life never was. But I had a girlfriend. College plans. Officer dreams. There was no online school back then. No remote anything. You went all in, or not at all.

So I chose “not at all.”
But I still wonder.

The boys? They were happy. I kept them entertained. Navigated. That was my job — unofficially. Spirit guide with a gas card.

And on the drive back to base, the radio crackled with the songs of our trip. The strange, now-sacred soundtrack of Germany 2004.
O-Zone’s Dragostea Din Tei
And Black Eyed Peas: “Let’s Get Retarded.”

Yeah — the German version still said it. No edit. No apology.
America hadn’t found its sensitivity yet. Not entirely.

But that was our trip in a nutshell.
Dumb, reckless, unforgettable.

Just three guys, a truck, and a little breathing room before life got serious again.

All adventures end. They always do.

The McDonald’s in town — our sad little reward for surviving another chow hall mystery meat. The long walk back along the train tracks, beer in our breath and gravel crunching under our boots. That little taste of freedom, of pretending we weren’t just on orders in a foreign place where everything still felt like a movie.

It was winding down.

But before we flew out, we needed to mark the end properly. One last night. One last bar. And wouldn’t you know it — Whittiak had a suggestion.

The Irish pub.

Of course it was his pick. After all the silent eye rolls, all the heavy sighs and tactical avoidance, we still had to forgive the guy. We ditched him. Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it was justified. Either way, we needed a peace treaty. And we needed drinks.

I half-fantasized about driving to Berlin that weekend — really going big, making it count. Or Paris. That sounded cinematic. Three airmen in a truck beneath the Eiffel Tower. But the gas logistics alone made it impossible. We were dreamers with military ID cards and ration cards, not international men of mystery. So, we stayed.

We did what we did best — drowned our thoughts in cheap beer in a dimly lit pub filled with expats and karaoke ghosts.

And then she appeared.

A heavyset Irish-looking woman. Limping. Clearly a few pints in. She waddled up to us — eyes glazed but determined — and said it, clear as day:
“Do you know someone who’d fuck me?”

We blinked.

No flirtation. No warm-up. Just that.

Was she serious? Absolutely. Was I? Absolutely not.

But there she was — human, loud, drunk, and craving something primal. Something transactional. Some crumb of affection in the bottom of a pint glass. And us? We were assholes. We laughed. Made a few crude jokes. Pawned her off to Whittiak like it was some kind of poetic justice.

She wanted sex. We wanted out. Nobody said yes.

I think about her sometimes. The desperation. The rawness of it. It’s easy to mock people when you’re young and stupid and feel untouchable. But maybe she was just another person needing a connection — no matter how messy, how absurd, how fleeting. Who were we to judge?

We finished our drinks and left the pub a little quieter.

The next morning came too early. We boarded the KC-135, the same old bird that brought us out here. Tired. Hungover. Different. We had a layover at Mildenhall, England — another blur of flightlines, vending machines, and waiting. Like a limbo between adventure and home.

No clowns. No jukebox girls. No strip club swindles. Just a long runway and the slow march back to normal life.

We didn’t say much. You never do at the end. The fun’s over, and the silence becomes your way of honoring it.

We came. We saw. We got hustled. We laughed.
We ditched a guy and drank with the Army.
We rode the Autobahn and flirted with trouble.
We were jerks, but we were honest about it.

And somewhere in Germany, there’s still a pub, a road, a cracked beer bottle, and maybe even a woman with a limp — all part of our story.

That was our trip. And we made it ours.

Our final stop before home was Mildenhall Air Force Base. England. Technically. A brief layover on the tail end of our budget saga across Germany. But for me, it meant something.

“I’ve been to Britain.”

It didn’t matter that we never left the wire. That we didn’t see Big Ben or sip warm beer in some pub with peeling wallpaper and pissed-off bartenders. We were there. Boots on British soil. I logged it mentally, like a passport stamp I’d never actually get.

We were all still itching for one more adventure — one more dash off base, just to say we lived it. But there wasn’t time. Just the slow churn of processing through, scanning IDs, waiting for instructions that never came fast enough.

So we made do with what we had.

Our last meal in Europe? McDonald’s.

And I wasn’t mad about it. I wanted to see what it was like — the small, strange ways cultures bend around the golden arches. The menu looked familiar, but not quite. Fries the same. Coke the same. But that sticker shock?

The combo meal ran me 12 bucks.

Back home it was six. Maybe six-fifty. But here? With the USD to pound exchange rate doing its worst, I paid double to taste the exact same thing. A powerful lesson. The price of comfort abroad is always more than you expect — whether it’s in pounds, Euros, or a half-spent per diem.

There were no more six-foot subs. No last-night debauchery. No dramatic airport goodbyes. Just a long flight, sore necks, and the hum of engines that lulled you into memory.

We landed. We were back. Willow Grove or wherever home was that week.

The adventure ended, like they always do — quietly. Without ceremony. Without fireworks. You just step off the plane, blink at the sunlight, and realize the story’s over.

But even now, sometimes, Ransom, Luster, and I still laugh about it.
About the sandwich.
About the bar with the rainbows and clowns.
About ditching Whittiak like a bad dream.
About the drunk German couple and that poor woman in the Irish pub.
About three broke airmen chasing adventure in the shadows of old castles.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t well-planned. But it was ours.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

We still have song in our head.