Day 6…Minnesota Family visit…The days roll into another in a blur…
As we make our way through each day and night, stomachs and chests aching from the constant coughing, we find ourselves asking the same quiet question over and over again. When will this end? It lingers in the background of everything, from the moment we wake to the long hours we lie awake listening to each other struggle through another coughing spell. There is no clear answer, only the passage of time marked by tissues, restless sleep, and the dull soreness that never quite fades.
It has been twenty-two days for me now. That number feels heavy, as if it should come with some sense of progress or relief. Instead, I am stuck in this strange in-between place. I am no longer at my worst, yet nowhere near well. Tom is only nine days in, and I can already see the road stretching out ahead of him. If this virus follows the same path it has taken with me, he still has a long way to go to reach this point, this frustrating plateau where improvement is so slow it is almost invisible.
The coughing is what wears us down the most. It is constant and unproductive, offering no sense of release or closure. Each cough feels like it should lead to something, some clearing or easing, but it never does. Instead, it leaves behind a sharp ache in the chest and a lingering irritation that builds until the next round begins. There is no pattern to it, not predictable in a way we can brace ourselves for. It simply comes, again and again, day and night.
Yesterday, we read that a cough from RSV can linger for as long as eight weeks. Eight weeks. The number felt almost impossible when we first saw it, yet here we are, already deep into that timeline. If that estimate holds, we will still be coughing when we arrive in Marloth Park in twenty days. That thought sits uneasily with me. I try not to dwell on it, but it is hard to ignore the reality of what our bodies are telling us.
I do not like to be negative, but there is a difference between negativity and honesty. We have learned over the years that acknowledging what is in front of us, even when it is uncomfortable, is often the only way to move through it. I do not believe I am still contagious, though there is no absolute certainty. Tom’s case is even more uncertain. His symptoms did not begin until over two weeks after mine, which leaves us questioning everything we thought we understood about the timeline.
Out of an abundance of caution, he has chosen to stay away from family. It is not an easy decision, especially when we are so close, but it feels like the responsible one. Instead, our days pass, one rolling into another. He naps on and off, his body clearly asking for more rest than usual. I find myself dozing here and there as well, though never deeply enough to feel fully restored. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by coughing and the discomfort that follows.
On Sunday night, I plan to go out with my son, Greg, to celebrate his girlfriend Heather’s birthday. He is picking me up at seven to take me to her party, about a half-hour drive from here. Even writing that feels like a small step forward. I know I will have to push myself. The idea of being out late, of making conversation, and being present feels daunting in my current state. Still, I also know that I need to begin reentering the world, however slowly.
There is a delicate balance between listening to our bodies and not allowing this illness to define our days completely. I am not sure I will get it right, but I am willing to try. More than anything, I look forward to the day when this is behind us, when the coughing fades into memory, and we can once again move through our days without this constant weight.
For now, we wait, we rest, and we hope.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 22, 2016
We’re back!…Substantial update to our itinerary…Hopefully better soon..
Perhaps it was the exhaustion more than anything else. The kind that settles deep into your bones after days and nights of coughing, when sleep comes in short, broken stretches and even the simplest task feels like too much. Or perhaps it was clarity, the kind that arrives in the middle of discomfort, when there is nothing left to distract you from what matters most. Whatever it was, somewhere between those relentless coughing jags and the fog of fatigue, we made a decision we had been resisting for too many days.
Plus, when we ran into obstacles in continuing to obtain our second passports and the Chinese visas while outside the US and nowhere near an embassy, the handwriting was on the wall. It became another signal that this chapter of extended, complicated travel was beginning to shift in ways we could no longer ignore.
We canceled the 65 nights of back-to-back cruises we had so carefully planned for 2027.
Even writing those words now feels strange. Those cruises had represented something to look forward to, a continuation of the life we have built over all these years of traveling the world. They were not just bookings on a calendar. They were part of our identity, part of the way we move through life, always onward, always curious, always grateful.
And yet, as we sat there, both of us sick, both of us worn down in a way we had not experienced since Covid in 2023, we knew we had reached a turning point.
It is not that the ships themselves were the issue. In fact, the upcoming cruises with Azamara would have been on smaller ships, carrying only about 700 passengers. In many ways, they seemed like a safer choice than the larger ships we had recently sailed on, which carried over 3,000 people. But it was not only about the number of passengers. It was the length of time. Sixty-five nights is a long stretch to be in a contained environment, no matter how luxurious or well-managed it may be.
We have learned something about our bodies over these past few years, something we can no longer ignore. We do not tend to get sick at the beginning of a cruise. Those first two weeks usually pass without issue. It is toward the end, when the accumulation of exposure begins to take its toll, that illness finds its way in. And when it does, it does not politely do so at some arbitrary location. It follows us to the next destination, lingering, stretching into weeks of recovery.
This time has been no different, only worse.
I first started feeling symptoms around May 1. At the time, it seemed manageable, just another travel bug that would pass in a few days. But here I am, three weeks later, still coughing, still feeling that heavy layer of fatigue that refuses to lift. Tom’s symptoms came later, almost deceptively mild at first. A runny nose on May 11 that we attributed to the lush greenery in Vancouver, Washington. It seemed harmless, almost predictable.
By the next day, as we began our road trip to Minnesota, it was anything but.
Watching him push through those long hours of driving while clearly unwell was both impressive and concerning. I offered to take over more than once, but he insisted, as always, determined. In hindsight, it feels almost surreal that we made it at all. Somewhere along that drive, we made another difficult decision, canceling our planned visit to Yellowstone National Park. At the time, it felt like yet another disappointment in a string of them. Later, we learned a major snowstorm had swept through the area. Once again, we had unknowingly made the right choice.
Now, six days into our time in Minnesota, we find ourselves in an unexpected pause. We came here to be with family, to celebrate, to reconnect. Instead, we have kept our distance, unwilling to risk passing along this awful virus to those we love. It is a strange kind of isolation, being so close and yet choosing to stay away.
We are fairly certain that what we are dealing with is RSV. Dozens of passengers from our last cruise have shared their diagnoses, and the symptoms align all too well with what we are experiencing—the lingering cough, the fatigue, the slow, stubborn recovery. There is little to be done beyond managing the symptoms and waiting it out, hoping it does not worsen.
Tom is behind me in the timeline of this illness, and that is perhaps the hardest part right now. As I begin, slowly, to see the faintest signs of improvement, he is in the thick of it. This morning, after a restless night, he went back to bed, his body demanding the rest it had not been able to get. There is an understanding between us, one that does not need words. We know this will take time.
And so, in the middle of all this, we picked up the phone and called Costco Travel. There was no dramatic discussion, no drawn-out debate. We knew. Canceling those four cruises meant losing $1,200 of our $4,400 in deposits, but in that moment, it did not feel like a loss. It felt like an investment in something far more important.
Our health.
We have always known this day would come. With Tom’s pulmonary fibrosis after decades of exposure on the railroad, and my ongoing cardiovascular issues, we have never been under the illusion that we could travel exactly as we always have, forever. Still, knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally are two very different things.
We fought it. We stretched it. We continued, perhaps longer than we should have.
But this is not the end of our travels. Not even close.
It is simply a shift.
We will still explore. We will still write. We will still wake up in new places and find joy in the unfamiliar. But we will do so with more care, more intention, and a deeper respect for the limits our bodies are beginning to set.
For now, we wait. We rest. We listen.
Perhaps in a few days, I will be well enough to see family. Perhaps Tom will follow a week later. We have eighteen days here, and we will take each one as it comes.
As we always have.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 21, 2016
Day 2…Minnesota family visit…Ordering second passports today…Why?
Given the challenges of obtaining a Chinese visa, we chose to get second passports to simplify the process. Mailing off our only passport while abroad was never an option. With two, we can send one for visas and still carry the other, keeping our travels uninterrupted and our peace of mind intact.
See our original post on this topic here from November 2012.
Fourteen years ago, when we first applied for second passports, it felt like stepping into the unknown with a quiet confidence that we would figure things out as we went. We had just left Minnesota, our lives packed into suitcases and a sense of possibility that was both exhilarating and, at times, overwhelming. Back then, the idea of needing two passports seemed unusual, almost indulgent, until we found ourselves navigating the practical realities of long-term international travel.
We quickly learned that the world does not move at the same pace everywhere. Visa applications required surrendering a passport for days, sometimes weeks, and yet we were rarely in a position to stay put and wait. We had flights to catch, borders to cross, and plans that were fluid but still needed a document in hand to continue forward. That first, second passport, valid for only two years, became an essential companion. It wasn’t about convenience. It was about continuity, about keeping our lives in motion.
Now, fourteen years later, we find ourselves in a similar position, though everything feels just a bit more familiar, a bit more grounded. The urgency is no longer fueled by uncertainty but by experience. We know exactly why we need a second passport, because we have lived the alternative, and it simply doesn’t work for the way we travel.
The biggest factor is still visas. Some countries require advance applications to be submitted in person or by mail to an embassy, often along with your physical passport. While that passport sits in an office somewhere, waiting for a stamp or sticker, life doesn’t pause. Travel plans continue, invitations arise, and sometimes unexpected opportunities appear that require immediate movement. Without a passport in hand, even the simplest domestic flight can feel complicated, and international travel becomes impossible.
There is also the unpredictability of timing. Consulates and embassies operate on their own schedules, influenced by local holidays, staffing, and demand. What might be processed in a few days in one country can take weeks in another. We have learned not to rely on best-case scenarios. Having a second passport allows us to send one off into that uncertain process while still holding onto the ability to move freely with the other.
Another reason, one that has become more apparent over the years, is the complexity of geopolitical relationships. Certain entry stamps can complicate or delay entry into other countries. While it is not always an issue, it is something we have become increasingly mindful of as our travels span continents with differing sensitivities. A second passport provides flexibility and, at times, a layer of simplicity in an otherwise complicated world.
What has changed, and what feels like a small but meaningful gift, is that the second passport is now valid for four years instead of two. That extension reflects an understanding, perhaps, that more people are living and traveling as we do, moving between countries not as tourists passing through but as individuals weaving together lives across borders. Four years offer breathing room. It reduces the frequency of applications, the paperwork, and the waiting, and allows us to focus more on the experience itself.
Still, the process brings us back to that earlier version of ourselves in 2012. Filling out forms (DS-11), gathering documents, getting new passport photos, and writing letters (we use the same letter for each of us, separately, with our names, passport numbers, date of birth, and contact information) to explain why we need what we are requesting. There is a sense of déjà vu, but also an appreciation for how far we have come. What once felt like an unusual request now feels like a natural extension of the life we have built.
As we prepare to apply again today at a local passport office, I am struck by how something as simple as a small blue booklet can represent so much. It is not just a travel document. It is freedom, flexibility, and the ability to continue saying yes to the life we have chosen. It allows us to keep moving forward, even when parts of the process require us to pause.
And so, once again, we gather the paperwork, write our explanations, and prepare to send off one passport while holding onto another. It feels familiar, almost comforting in its own way. A reminder that while the world continues to change, and while we have changed along with it, the core of what we are doing remains the same.
We are still moving. Still exploring. Still finding our way, one journey at a time.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 18, 2016:
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| The rice paddies ready for planting. See this site for more details. “The Balinese system of irrigating their rice terraces is known as Subak. It is such an important part of Balinese culture that, in June 2012, it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This method of irrigating land was inspired by ancient Hindu philosophy and has been used since at least the 11th century. Using this method, the rice fields were built around temples, and the allocation of water is the responsibility of priests. For this irrigation management to succeed, members of each community have had to cooperate and work in partnership. Each member of the community takes responsibility for maintaining the system’s integrity, and this is why the terraces tend to look so well-maintained. The rice farmers work as a unit to create appropriate canals and dams. Another important element of the Subak system is the religious festivals that mark the cycle of the year.” For more photos, please click here. |
Day 1…Minnesota family visit…Settling in…
The final stretch from Tea, South Dakota, to Eden Prairie, Minnesota, felt longer than it should have, not in miles but in the way our bodies carried the weight of the past few days. Hours on the road can feel manageable at the beginning of a trip, but by this point, we were both worn down in ways that are hard to ignore. We had settled into a pattern of only stopping when necessary, quick breaks for petrol and restrooms, just enough time to step out of the car, stretch our legs, and remind ourselves what it felt like to stand upright.
Even with those small pauses, the discomfort lingered. My body seemed to protest the most. Sitting had become a challenge, and by the last hour, I found myself shifting constantly, trying to find a position that offered even a little relief. Tom, on the other hand, carried his discomfort differently, though I could see it in the way he moved. His ribs were still tender from days of coughing, each breath a reminder that he had a way to go before he recovered.
He is getting better, which is something we both hold onto. Still, he is not himself. There is a heaviness to him, a fatigue that does not lift, paired with that deep, lingering congestion that seems to come with RSV. It is the kind of illness that takes its time, requiring patience whether you are ready to give it or not. I recognize it because I was there not long ago, moving through the same exhaustion, the same slow climb back to feeling normal.
Despite it all, we are in good spirits. There is comfort in knowing we are on the mend, that each day brings a little more energy, a little less discomfort. We have no sense that medical care is needed, just time, rest, and the willingness to let our bodies recover at their own pace. What we are most looking forward to now is seeing our family, though even that comes with a layer of caution. I have been sick for over two weeks and feel confident I am no longer contagious, but Tom will need a few more days. It is the responsible choice, even if it requires a bit more patience.
By the time we pulled into the hotel, the need to stop was immediate. There is a certain urgency that comes after hours on the road, when all you want is a door to close behind you and a moment to exhale. Even that simple process tested us slightly. The keys to our first-floor room refused to cooperate, leaving us standing in the hallway, tired and waiting. The front desk staff handled it quickly, calling maintenance, and before long, the issue was resolved.
When we finally stepped inside, the room felt familiar in the best possible way. Without hesitation, I made a quick dash to the spacious bathroom, grateful for the comfort of something so ordinary and so necessary. It is funny how travel reshapes your appreciation for the smallest things.
The staff, recognizing the inconvenience, added 5,000 Marriott Bonvoy points to our account, a gesture we genuinely appreciated. It was a simple act, but one that made us feel cared for, a reminder that even small disruptions can be softened by kindness.
Once settled, we moved into our usual routine. Bags opened, clothes put away, everything finding its place. Within forty-five minutes, we had transformed the space into something that felt, temporarily, like home. There is satisfaction in that process, in creating order after a day that has felt long and somewhat taxing.
A few hours later, neither of us had the energy to go out, so we turned to what has become an easy solution. We ordered dinner through Grubhub, choosing comfort over effort. I went with steamed chicken and vegetables, and shrimp egg foo yong, something light but satisfying. Tom chose his usual favorite, sweet and sour pork, a dish that always seems to bring him a bit of comfort. The portions were generous enough to carry us through another meal, which feels like a small victory.
We intentionally ordered enough for two nights, giving ourselves permission to rest tomorrow without having to think about cooking. Still, I can already feel the balance shifting. While the convenience of delivery is undeniable, the cost adds up quickly. Even with a fee-free service through Amazon Prime, dinner for two on Grubhub comes close to US$ 50 per day. Dining out would easily double that.
Today, I will take some time to put together a small grocery order, something simple that allows us to cook on the evenings when we are not with family. It feels like the right middle ground, a way to care for ourselves while also being mindful.
Before settling in for the night, we reached out to the family to let them know we had arrived safely. There is comfort in that message, in knowing that soon, when the timing is right, we will be together again. For now, rest is what we need most.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 17, 2016:
Day 4…On the road…Made an early stop for the night in Tea, South Dakota, since Tom is so sick…Bison!!!…
We spent the night at a Quality Inn in Rapid City, South Dakota, a first for us and, unfortunately, not one we are likely to repeat. It is always a bit of a gamble when you pull off the road after a long day and try somewhere new, hoping for that small sense of comfort that comes with a decent room and a reliable connection to the outside world. In this case, the room itself met the basic expectations. It was clean, which always matters most, and the bed was comfortable enough to invite a good night’s sleep after hours on the road.
But the WiFi, or lack of it, quickly became the underlying theme of the evening. It is funny how something so seemingly minor has become such an essential part of our daily routine. Posting, staying connected, even just looking up the next stretch of the journey, all depend on it. When we realized it was not working, I resorted to using my phone as a hotspot to upload yesterday’s post. It worked, but slowly, and with a level of patience that felt hard to summon after a full day of travel.
The real frustration came when we tried to resolve it. The hotel had advertised free WiFi, yet there we were, disconnected and improvising. When we mentioned the issue at the front desk, they handed us a phone number for their provider, as though we were expected to sort it out ourselves. We called, hopeful that it might be a quick fix, only to be told they had no record of that hotel at all. It felt like we had stepped into a strange little loop where no one quite knew what was going on. After spending far too much time chasing a solution, we gave up and settled back into our makeshift hotspot connection, shaking our heads at the absurdity.
Thankfully, the evening improved once we left the hotel for dinner. We went to the Colonial Inn Restaurant, and from the moment we sat down, everything shifted. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, the kind that invites you to relax without even realizing it. I ordered a shell-free taco salad that turned out to be one of the best I can remember. It was fresh, flavorful, and exactly what I did not know I had been craving. Tom chose a burger along with chicken and wild rice soup, a comforting combination that seemed to suit him perfectly.
What stood out most, though, was the service. It was impeccable in a way that feels increasingly rare. Attentive without being intrusive, friendly without feeling forced. We left feeling genuinely cared for and made sure to reward our server accordingly. It is those small human interactions that linger long after the meal is over.
Back at the hotel, we settled in to watch the NHL playoffs, focusing on the Vegas Golden Knights. I have followed them for years now, ever since our son Richard, who lives in Nevada, first got me interested. There is something comforting about that connection, watching a game hundreds of miles away and feeling just a little closer to him in the process. For a while, we forgot about the WiFi and the earlier frustrations and simply enjoyed the game.
The night itself was uneven. We slept, but not deeply, and we both woke at different times, coughing uncontrollably. It is an unpleasant reminder that this lingering virus is not quite done with us yet. Tom, in particular, does not feel as well today as he did yesterday. There is a heaviness to it, the kind that makes even simple things feel like an effort. Still, we are hanging in there, doing what needs to be done.
We were back on the road by 9:00 in the morning, determined to keep moving forward. There is something about travel that encourages that mindset. You adjust, you adapt, and you continue.
Halfway into the day, somewhere along the long stretch of highway that seems to define this part of the country, Tom suggested we stop for the night. There was no drama in his voice, no sense of defeat, just an acknowledgment that his body had reached its limit. We had been aiming for Eden Prairie, Minnesota, still holding onto the idea that we might make it in one long push, but neither of us had booked a hotel. We had left it open, as we often do, trusting the day to tell us what it needed.
The logistics made it easier to say yes. Our rental car isn’t due back until Sunday, when we’ll pick up another in Minneapolis at a better rate. We’ve learned over time that dropping a car off at a different location comes at a cost, and swapping vehicles mid-journey has become one of those small, practical decisions that shape how we travel. It made sense to stretch this drive into one more day.
We found a hotel in the little town of Tea, South Dakota, a place we might never have noticed if not for this moment. After checking in, it became clear just how unwell Tom was feeling. There’s a look that comes over him when he’s sick, a kind of deep exhaustion that no amount of determination can mask. As soon as we carried in our few bags and plugged in our equipment and chargers, which now feel as essential as anything else we travel with, he slipped under the covers and fell into a much-needed sleep.
Next door, there’s a restaurant where we may have dinner tonight. It feels comforting to know it’s there, simple and close. If he’s up to it, we’ll go together. If not, I’ll walk over and bring something back. For now, I’m sitting in the lobby, hoping rest will do what it can, and that tomorrow will feel just a little bit easier for him.
It is a strange balance, this life on the road. There are moments of frustration, unexpected detours, and nights that do not go as planned. But there are also small joys, a good meal, a shared conversation in the comfort of moving forward together. And for now, that is enough.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 15, 2016:
Day 3…On the road…Made it to Rapid City, South Dakota…Update on Tom…
When we arrived at the hotel in Evanston, Wyoming, last night, there was no question how the evening would unfold. Tom went straight to the bed fully dressed, pulled back the heavy white covers, and slid underneath as if he had been waiting all day for that exact moment. Within seconds, he was curled up, shoulders hunched, shivering in a way that made me instantly uneasy. The room was warm enough, but this virus ran deeper than the thermostat could touch.
He said he was freezing. Not the casual kind of cold that comes from stepping out into mountain air, but the kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. I stood there for a moment, watching him, wishing I could somehow trade places or at least absorb a bit of it for him. It had been nearly two weeks since I had been sick myself, and now here it was, making its way through him with what felt like even more intensity.
Neither of us had eaten in 24 hours, which only added to the sense that we were running on fumes. I gently suggested that he try not to fall asleep just yet, worried that if he did, the night would become a patchwork of restless waking. He nodded, but exhaustion has a way of overriding even the best intentions. Within minutes, his breathing softened, and he drifted off despite himself.
Forty-five minutes later, I leaned over and woke him as gently as I could. It felt almost wrong to interrupt the little bit of rest he had found, but we both needed something in our stomachs. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented for a moment, before remembering where we were and why.
We made our way down to the on-site restaurant. The dining room had that old-fashioned supper club feel, softly lit, a little worn in the best possible way, with booths that invited you to settle in and stay awhile. Under different circumstances, I might have found it charming in a more joyful sense. Last night, it felt more like a place to regroup.
We slid into a comfy booth and didn’t say much at first. There is a certain kind of silence that comes when both people are simply trying to get through the moment, and this was one of them.
Tom ordered a cup of chicken soup. When it arrived, he held the spoon carefully, as if even that small effort required concentration. He managed to finish the entire cup, along with a couple of small slices from the loaf of bread brought to the table. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and I was grateful for that.
I ordered a grilled chicken breast and made my way to the salad bar. I actually paused for a second when I saw it—a salad bar. I realized I hadn’t seen one since before the pandemic. There was something unexpectedly comforting about it, the simple normalcy of choosing a handful of toppings and building a plate. It felt like a small return to a world that had once been so ordinary.
We didn’t linger long. Less than an hour later, we were back in our room, and Tom went straight under the covers again, retreating into that cocoon of warmth he seemed to need so badly. He drifted in and out of sleep, the kind that never quite settles, until he finally took the nighttime cough medicine I had packed before we left.
Sometime in the night, I woke to the sound of him stirring. He reached for the medicine again, taking a second dose, then settled back down. I listened for a while, the rhythm of his breathing steadier than it had been earlier, and eventually fell back asleep myself.
By 7:45 this morning, he woke up and, to my immense relief, said he felt much better. Not perfect, but better. It was enough to lift the heaviness that had been sitting in my chest since the night before.
By 8:30, we had our few bags packed and loaded into the car, and we were back on the road once again. There is something about continuing forward, even when the journey feels uncertain, that brings its own kind of comfort.
We stopped to refill the car, another small task that somehow felt more significant than usual. In Vancouver, gas had been $5.50 a gallon, a number that had made us wince. Out here on the road, the highest we have paid so far is US $4.50, which felt like a victory, even if only a temporary one.
As I write this now, it is 11:00 in the morning, and we still have another six hours before we reach our stop for the night in Rapid City, South Dakota. Tom’s sister Rita lives there, and under normal circumstances, we would absolutely stop to see her and her husband. But with their recent health concerns, there is no question that we can’t risk exposing them to whatever this is. It is one of those difficult decisions that feels both obvious and disappointing at the same time.
Soon, I will start looking for a hotel close to the highway, along with a nearby restaurant where we can grab something simple and nourishing. For now, the road stretches out ahead of us, long and steady.
Driving through southern Wyoming has not been particularly scenic, at least not in the dramatic way we had hoped for. The landscape feels wide and barren, almost reserved, offering fewer reasons to pull over and take photos. And yet, there is still something about it. The openness. The sense of moving through a place that asks nothing of you except to keep going.
Today, that feels like enough.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 14, 2016:
Day 2…On the road…Made it to Evanston, Wyoming…
We are on the road again today, leaving Boise, Idaho, behind us under a pale morning sky that seems to understand exactly how we are feeling. There is something about beginning a long drive when one of us is unwell that changes everything. The excitement softens, the sense of adventure dulls, and all that really matters is getting safely to the next stop.
Unfortunately, Tom is very sick. Somewhere along the way, he picked up the same virus I brought with me from the ship almost two weeks ago. It feels unfair, like a lingering souvenir neither of us wanted. He is exhausted, achy, and coughing in that deep, persistent way that makes it impossible to rest. I remember those first few days all too well, and watching him go through it now tugs at my heart.
I offered to drive, more than once, but he insists on staying behind the wheel. There is a certain determination in him, even when he feels awful, that I both admire and worry about. I keep a close eye on him, listening between the stretches of road for any change in his breathing or energy. We still have two long days ahead of us before we reach Minnesota, and it feels longer now than it did when we first mapped it out.
With that in mind, we made the decision, much to our mutual disappointment, to skip Yellowstone this time. We had talked about it with such anticipation, imagining the wide open landscapes, the wildlife, and the wonder of it all. But the reality of traffic, higher elevation, unpredictable weather, and longer driving hours doesn’t change how things are today. It was the right choice, even if I didn’t like it when we said it out loud.
There is comfort, though, in knowing this isn’t an opportunity forever. Next year, after our four back-to-back Azamara cruises, we will make this same drive again from Vancouver to Minnesota. Yellowstone will wait for us. It will be there, unchanged in its grandeur, ready for a time when we can fully appreciate it.
Right now, our only goal is simple. Get to Minnesota by Friday afternoon. Nothing more, nothing less.
Last night, we stayed at a relatively nice Best Western hotel in Boise. It was one of those places that feels welcoming the moment you walk in, even if you know you’re assured. We had dinner at a local spot, Wildwood Grill, and for a little while, everything felt almost normal. A good meal, a quiet table, and the familiar comfort of sitting across from each other at the end of a day.
But the night was long.
Sleep didn’t come easily for either of us. The room was filled with the sound of coughing, mine lingering but manageable, his constant and harsh. There is something especially difficult about being sick away from your own bed, your own space. I could hear the frustration in his breathing, the restlessness of a body that just couldn’t.
Yesterday morning, he started taking Tamiflu. It’s on. It’s those things you hold onto with cautious hope. Is it working? Would he feel worse without it? There’s an answer, only the wish that it will shorten the duration and ease the symptoms, even just a little.
As we’ve done so far, we’ve been listening to the Garage Logic episodes we missed while we were on the cruise. It feels oddly comforting, like catching up with familiar voices. Every so often, as we move deeper into more remote stretches, the signal fades and disappears altogether. The silence that follows is noticeable, but not unwelcome. It gives us space just to be, to watch the road, and to sit with our thoughts.
Today’s is more southerly, less scenic by most standards, but right now, beauty isn’t missed in landscapes. It’s me. It’s steady miles, in manageable traffic, and getting closer to where we need to be. I will try to take a few photos along the way, small glimpses to share with our dear readers, even if they don’t capture sweeping vistas.
More than anything, we are looking forward to Tom feeling better. To the day when the coughing stops, when sleep comes easily again, and when this stretch of the journey becomes just another story we tell.
We just checked into a hotel in Evanston, Wyoming, and soon will go to dinner at the hotel’s popular restaurant.
For now, we keep going.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 13, 2016:
We’re on the road..
- We are on the road at last, that familiar feeling settling in as the wheels begin to turn and the scenery slowly shifts from the known to the unknown. After four delightful days spent with our dear friends Rita and Gerhard, this morning came with a mix of gratitude and that tug that always accompanies a goodbye. They kindly drove us to the Enterprise location, though not without a bit of a challenge. What should have been a simple twenty-minute drive stretched into over an hour, thanks to the steady pulse of morning rush hour traffic. It felt like the road was reminding us that every journey begins in its own time.
Once we arrived, picked up our rental car, and loaded our bags, it was time to part ways. Hugs lingered just a little longer, smiles held a touch more meaning, and then, just like that, we were off. There is something about that first stretch of highway that always feels significant, as if the road itself is opening up to welcome us forward.
Our goal today is simple: reach Boise, Idaho, by dinner time. It feels both ambitious and entirely doable, the kind of goal that gives structure without pressure. We have yet to book a hotel for the night, something that might have once made us uneasy, but over time has become part of our rhythm. There is a certain freedom in waiting, in allowing the day to unfold before deciding where we will rest our heads. More often than not, those last-minute bookings turn out to be the best finds, both financially and unexpectedly charming.
About an hour into the drive, I will begin searching for a place to stay, ideally with a nearby restaurant where we can settle in after a long day and reflect on the miles behind us. Until then, we press on, committed to making only the necessary stops for fuel and a quick stretch. There is determination in that kind of travel, a shared understanding that the destination will be all the sweeter for the effort.
As the miles pass beneath us, I find myself reflecting on how much I love this part of the country. The Pacific Northwest has shown us its beauty in ways that feel almost generous. Towering evergreens, distant mountain ranges softened by mist, and rivers that wind alongside the road as if they, too, are traveling somewhere important. It is a landscape that invites you to slow down, even as you move forward.
What makes this journey even more meaningful is sharing it with Tom. He hasn’t traveled this route before, and there is a special kind of joy in watching someone you love experience something new, especially when it is a place you have come to appreciate so deeply. I find myself pointing out small details along the way, the changing colors of the hills, the way the light shifts as clouds drift overhead, and the subtle transitions that signal we are moving from one region to another.
And then, of course, there is what lies ahead. Yellowstone. Just thinking about it brings a sense of anticipation that is hard to put into words. The possibility of seeing bison roaming freely across vast open spaces, of watching while nature carries on uninterrupted, feels like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. The scenery there is said to be extraordinary, layered with textures and colors that shift with every turn.
If the Pacific Northwest has already left us in awe, it is hard to imagine what Yellowstone will bring. And yet, that is the beauty of travel. When you think you have seen something remarkable, the world gently reveals something even more breathtaking.
For now, we settle into the pace of the road. The hum of the tires, the occasional glance at the map on the rental car’s screen, and the quiet companionship that comes from sharing a journey like this. There is nowhere else we need to be, no rush beyond the one we set for ourselves. Just the open road, the promise of what lies ahead, and the simple joy of being right here, in the middle of it all.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 12, 2016:
Part 2…Sightseeing with friends in Vancouver, Washington and Oregon…Lovely Mother’s Day dinner at Rita and Gerhard’s home…
When Gerhard and Rita picked us up yesterday afternoon, we had no idea that the drive itself would feel like a quiet step back in time. As we made our way through a historic area of Vancouver, they guided us through the grounds of the Vancouver Barracks, a place steeped in stories that date back to 1849. This was the first U.S. Army post in the Pacific Northwest, and even from the car, it carried a sense of dignity and permanence that is difficult to describe unless you have seen it for yourself.
The barracks are part of the larger Fort Vancouver National Historic Site, an area that has been lovingly preserved and restored over the years. We passed rows of stately 19th-century officers’ homes, their architecture reflecting a time when craftsmanship and detail were paramount. The wide porches, tall windows, and manicured lawns seemed to whisper stories of another era. Nearby, we caught a glimpse of the Pearson Air Museum, a reminder that this area is not only rooted in military history but also in the early days of aviation.
What struck me most was how beautifully everything had been renovated. There was no sense of neglect or fading history. Instead, the entire area felt alive, as if the past had been carefully carried forward into the present. It was easy to imagine life here between 1846 and 1906, when this region played such an important role in shaping the Pacific Northwest. Even for someone like me, who tends to connect more with people than with places, there was something deeply moving about seeing history preserved with such care.
Tom, of course, was completely captivated. As a devoted history buff, he soaked in every detail, pointing out architectural features and commenting on the significance of what we were seeing. Watching him light up like that always brings me joy. It is one of the many ways we experience the world differently yet together, each of us finding meaning in our own way while sharing the same moment.
After this fascinating drive, we left the historic district and headed toward the neighborhood where Rita and Gerhard have made their home since the late 1980s. The transition from historic landmark to quiet residential streets felt seamless, as if the entire city carries a gentle respect for its past while embracing the present. Their neighborhood was charming and welcoming, with tree-lined streets and homes that reflected years of care and pride.
Stepping inside their home was like entering a beautifully curated collection of memories. Everywhere I looked, there were treasures from their extensive world travels. Each piece seemed to have a story, thoughtfully placed and tastefully arranged in a way that felt inviting rather than overwhelming. It reminded me so much of our own lifestyle, collecting experiences, though seeing it displayed in a permanent home added a different kind of warmth.
One of the highlights of the evening was finally meeting their two adult children, Lisa and Marcus. There is something special about connecting with the family members of dear friends, as it deepens the relationship in a meaningful way. They were warm and engaging, and it did not take long for conversation to flow as easily as if we had known each other for years.
Dinner itself was nothing short of wonderful. Rita had prepared a delicious spread that included filet mignon, grilled chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, sweet corn on the cob, sautéed vegetables, and a hearty salad of fresh greens. For me, it was perfect to be able to select the options that worked best for how I eat, something that has become second nature after all these years of travel and adapting. Tom, on the other hand, reveled in the mashed potatoes and corn, savoring every bite of what felt like a rare and comforting treat.
As always, the conversation carried us through the evening with ease. We shared stories, laughter, and reflections from our travels and from life in general. There is a certain comfort that comes from being with people who understand the pace of connection, where nothing feels forced, and everything unfolds naturally.
By the time we returned to our hotel, we were ready for a good night’s sleep, the kind that comes after a full and meaningful day. This morning, as soon as I finish uploading today’s post, Rita will pick me up again, and we will head out for some girl time and coffee at her favorite local barista. I am looking forward to that quiet time together, just the two of us, sharing conversation in a different way.
Later today, we will begin packing for tomorrow’s departure as we set out on a four-day road trip across the northern United States toward Minnesota. I hope to continue posting along the way, laptop balanced on my lap, relying on our T-Mobile connection whenever the signal cooperates. With long travel days ahead, I prefer to write in the quiet of the morning rather than the evening. We are especially looking forward to capturing photos along the journey, particularly when we reach Yellowstone in a few days, depending on road conditions and how far we choose to drive each day.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 11, 2016:
