Where in the World is Dakota?

Called to Go: Following the Mapmaker’s Call, One Step at a Time

recent posts

about

  • And She Became: A Fairytale Written in Scars and Strength

    Intro

    Some stories are read. Others are lived. And then there are the rare few that write themselves into your soul — one gust of wind, one crumbling stone wall, one barefoot step at a time. What began as a photoshoot in a gown with a sword became something far deeper: a reckoning, a reclamation, and a chapter of becoming written against the timeless backdrop of Scotland’s hills and castles. 

    This was never just about a dress, a camera, or a castle. It was about stepping into every version of myself I had ever been — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, and the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along. Scotland wasn’t just the setting for this chapter. It was the page upon which I rewrote my story.

    🌧️ Once Upon a Scottish Morning

    Once upon a time, in a land far from home, she woke to a soft drizzle against her windowpane. The streets below were still wrapped in shadow, but the air felt alive — full of promise and a touch of magic. Today, she would gallivant through her kingdom…
    Alright, maybe not a real kingdom — but for one day, it was going to be mine. ✨

    🌅  A Fairytale Morning in Holyrood Park

    The fairytale began at Holyrood Park. The walk there earned me more than a few curious glances — apparently, not everyone expects to see a woman gliding down Princes Street in a flowing gown early on a Sunday morning! (“What, you’ve never seen a princess before coffee?” ☕ 😂) The stroll carried me past the royal residence itself, but my footsteps were leading me somewhere older, somewhere steeped in legend.

    ​​The first stop was a rocky hill — the kind that feels ancient, carved by time and stories long forgotten — with uneven surfaces and wild winds making balance a small adventure in itself. I kicked off my shoes and stepped barefoot onto the cool stone, the wind whipping through my hair with wild insistence. It wasn’t a gentle breeze; it was Scotland reminding me who was in charge. But we understood one another that morning — the wind became my unseen dance partner, sweeping fabric and hair into motion like a waltz at a Bridgerton ball. The moment the camera clicked, I felt as if I’d stepped not just into a storybook, but into a living painting — one where I wasn’t posing, but becoming. I stood there, emerald dress billowing like a banner, the weight of the sword grounding me as much as the earth beneath my feet. Every gust carried a kind of freedom, and for that fleeting moment, I was the story.

    From there, we hiked toward the ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel. Perched on the hillside, its weathered stones stood as a quiet reminder of medieval faith and time’s steady march through the centuries. I let the cool earth and uneven stone press against my feet, grounding me as I wandered through what was once a sacred place. The air was still — except for the wind howling dramatically through the ancient arches, as if cued just for us. From this height, the city stretched below, yet up here, surrounded by crumbling walls and echoes of forgotten footsteps, I felt worlds away.

    At one point, I paused in a crumbling window frame, gazing out over the same sweeping view that countless others must have seen long before me. I couldn’t help but wonder who they were — monks, nobles, pilgrims — and what they might have felt standing there: hope, longing, faith, or perhaps the same quiet awe that filled me. That single moment, framed by ancient stone and endless sky, made me feel deeply connected to the many lives that had passed through this place before mine — as if time itself had stopped to let me listen.

    With that reflection still lingering, we left the chapel’s echoing stones behind. I slipped my shoes back on for the walk ahead, ready to trade ancient stone for sweeping green as we made our way toward the windswept grassy valley.

    By the time we arrived, the mist had lifted, leaving behind a soft golden glow that wrapped the hills in quiet enchantment. The wind was still wild — no longer just a breeze but a mischievous spirit — tugging at my dress and hair as if determined to sweep me into its game.I shed my shoes once more, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath my feet as I twirled and frolicked across the landscape, the hem of my dress swirling like something out of a period drama. The light caught on the folds of emerald fabric as I moved — free, weightless, and entirely lost in the moment. It was one of those rare mornings when time felt suspended, when the world hushed just long enough for you to feel not just like the main character, but woven into the story itself — a living, breathing part of Scotland’s timeless landscape, carried along by the wind’s playful rhythm.

    As the final clicks of the camera echoed across the valley, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape — as if the land itself knew this chapter was coming to a close. I slipped my shoes back on, brushing the grass from my dress, and took one last lingering look at the hills. The fairytale feeling hadn’t faded; if anything, it was growing stronger, tugging me forward toward the next adventure. And what better next chapter than a castle? 🏰✨

    🌹Once a Warrior, Now a Queen: A Coronation of Becoming 
    As we drove toward the castle, my thoughts wandered far beyond the day’s fairytale setting. They drifted back to hospital rooms and long, dark nights — to the chapters of my life where I had to fight in new ways, on unfamiliar battlefields. Many people suggested I do a photoshoot to celebrate “surviving” cancer. But I never felt drawn to that word. Survivor felt too neat, too final — and it left no room for the warriors who fought just as fiercely but never got the chance to say they survived. I was, and always will be, a cancer warrior — not because the battle ended, but because it shaped who I am becoming every single day.

    Somewhere along that journey, I learned one of the most profound truths of my life: if I didn’t love the person looking back at me in the mirror, I could change. I wasn’t bound by who society said I should be or by the expectations of others. I could become — grow, evolve, and step into the version of myself I was created to be. Scars, imperfections, and all, I was not broken. I was becoming whole. My faith was the light that guided me through the darkest valleys, the steady hand that reminded me that transformation is holy work — not about erasing the past, but about rising from it.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized that becoming isn’t about perfection — it’s about embracing the fullness of who you are, even the parts that hurt. A rose doesn’t apologize for its thorns. They are part of its nature — sharp, sometimes painful, and often misunderstood — yet they exist alongside its beauty. The rose cannot choose to bloom without them, and yet those who truly see it do so in spite of the sting. I came to understand that I, too, was both thorn and bloom — strength and softness, pain and beauty, grief and grace — and that my worth was not diminished by the scars that told my story.

    And that is what this photoshoot was truly about. It wasn’t vanity or performance; it was a declaration. A promise to the girl who fought so hard to stay. It was a love letter to the woman she was still becoming. Each frame, each moment, wasn’t just a photograph — it was a reclaiming of my story. A chance to see myself not as a supporting character in someone else’s tale, but as the main character in my own: strong, deeply loved, perfectly imperfect, and boldly stepping into the next chapter of a story that is still unfolding.

    As the castle’s stone towers rose into view, something inside me shifted. This wasn’t just another stop on my journey — it was the living embodiment of everything I had fought for. Every thorn, every scar, every tear had led me here, to this moment. I felt the past and present converge inside me: warrior and woman, thorn and bloom, scar and strength. This wasn’t just a photoshoot — it was a coronation. A knighting of the warrior I had become. And as the gates loomed closer, I understood something deeply: I was no longer stepping into someone else’s story for me — I was writing my own, ready to step into a story that had been patiently waiting for me to believe I was its author (and the big man upstairs my editor/publisher). 🌹✨

    🏰 Through the Castle Gate: A Realm Awaits Its Queen
    The first step into Craigmillar Castle’s courtyard felt like stepping into another world — one woven from both history and imagination. We began near the great tree that anchors the heart of the inner ward, its leaves a deep, almost crimson red — a striking contrast against the pale grey pebbles underfoot and the cool stone walls that framed the space around us. It felt like a scene plucked straight from Game of Thrones — a weirwood tree standing in quiet watch, ancient and knowing, its branches whispering secrets of centuries past. The walls rose high and steady, scarred by time yet still unyielding, and for a moment, I half-expected a watchful steward or an old caretaker to emerge from the archways.The air was crisp, the light golden, and with each step deeper into the courtyard, it felt as though we were slipping through a door in time — one heartbeat closer to the stories these stones had held for hundreds of years.

    👑Crowned by a Child’s Gaze
    It didn’t take long before the castle walls stopped being just stone and history — they started to feel like part of a living story. As we wandered deeper into the courtyard, camera still clicking, a small voice rang out across the grounds:

    “Dad, look! There’s the princess!”

    The words floated through the crisp morning air, innocent and earnest, and for a moment, I froze. I had always loved fairytales — devoured them as a child, studied their deeper meanings as an English major, and clung to them during some of life’s darkest storms. But standing there, dress sweeping over ancient cobblestones, sword in hand and sunlight catching on my hair, I wasn’t reading the story anymore. I was the story.

    Laughter echoed from another corner of the courtyard where a tired father, clearly at his wit’s end, threatened his bickering children with a most medieval consequence: “If you don’t behave, I’ll have the queen lock you in the dungeon!” That made all of us laugh — the kids, the photographer, even me. But beneath the humor was a strange, beautiful truth: I wasn’t playing dress-up. I wasn’t pretending. I was the queen in the story — not because of the dress or the setting, but because I had finally claimed that role for myself.

    It was surreal, almost dizzying, how these small, whimsical interactions carried such weight. Years ago, I would’ve brushed them off, hidden from that kind of attention, told myself I wasn’t worthy of being anyone’s princess — let alone queen. I’d convinced myself that I was too imperfect, too much, or maybe not enough. But that day, wrapped in layers of fabric and courage in the middle of a Scottish castle, I didn’t shrink back.

    Being called “princess” and “queen” — for the first time in my life, I didn’t flinch at those titles. I embraced them. I believed them. I smiled; in that smile was the quiet acknowledgment of every thorn and scar, every hard-fought step that had brought me here.

    This was more than a photoshoot. It was a reclamation — a rewriting of a narrative for a girl who once doubted her place in the fairytale. I was no longer the girl on the outside looking in. I was the woman at the center of the story, thorns and all, standing in her God-given power and finally believing she had belonged in the castle all along — not as a visitor, but as its rightful queen. 🏰✨

    🗡️ Upon the Battlements: A Queen’s Watch

    Climbing the narrow spiral staircase to the upper walls felt like ascending into another chapter of the story.I walked the length of the battlements slowly and deliberately, sword in hand, the chill of the ancient stone seeping into my bare feet, grounding me in the present while connecting me to the countless souls who had walked there centuries before.

    Below stretched the fields — my “battlefields” — not of blood or conquest, but of resilience, faith, and every fight that had forged the woman standing there. With each step, I thought about the battles I had faced and the ones I had yet to fight, and how every scar had led me to this very moment.

    Then, in another moment — one I’ll never forget — I lowered the sword to my side and simply stood there, watching the expanse before me not as a dreamer, but as its rightful queen, poised on the edge of her reign. This was more than a pose for the camera — it was no longer about imagining what could be, but about claiming what already was. It was a coronation written not in crowns and ceremony, but in scars and strength, in the quiet promises forged through every battle I had faced.

    There, high atop the battlements, I made a silent promise to myself: that I would never again shrink from my own power, never again question my worth. I had fought for this view, this peace, this strength — and I had earned every inch of it. And from that height, with the wind at my back and a kingdom stretched before me, I no longer saw myself as a survivor of the story, but as the author of it — the queen who had risen, and who would continue to rise, again and again. 👑

    📖 Among Pages and Shadows: The Story Still Unfolding

    From the battlements, we stepped into the castle’s inner chambers — a stark shift from sweeping views to a world of quiet shadow and stone. The air was cooler here, touched by centuries of stories that seemed to hum beneath the surface. A narrow window let in a shaft of soft, diffused light, and as I stepped into its glow, the world outside faded away.

    The photographer handed me an old book, worn and weathered — not for its content, but for the story it suggested. I sank into a stillness I know well: the kind born of turning pages, of losing yourself in worlds written long before your own. Light spilled across my hair and pale skin, catching on the folds of emerald fabric and casting striking contrasts — darkness and light, strength and softness, shadow and story.

    It was more than a prop. Holding that book felt symbolic — a mirror of the life I was living and writing all at once. Every chapter I’d walked through, from pain to triumph, was there in the silence between the pages. Every scar and lesson, every tear and victory — all of it was part of a story still unfolding, still being written.Standing there, barefoot on the cold stone floor, I felt the weight of time pressing gently around me. The walls had witnessed centuries of lives, loves, losses — and now, they were witnessing mine. And in that quiet, luminous moment, I realized I wasn’t just holding a book. I was the book — chapters still unwritten, pages still turning, and a story that was far from over. 📖✨

    Echoes of the Past: Wandering Through Time

    Exploring the interior of Craigmillar Castle felt like walking through the pages of a story that had been written centuries before I arrived — and yet somehow, I was part of it now. The corridors were cool and dim, their stone walls breathing out the scent of rain and age, and every step I took seemed to stir up whispers of the past.

    I moved slowly, hand trailing along walls worn smooth by countless generations, imagining the lives that had unfolded here. I could almost hear the clatter of knights’ boots echoing up the spiral staircases — some racing to ready themselves for a royal quest, others polishing their armor in hopes of winning the queen’s favor. Their banners would have fluttered proudly in the courtyard, bright with heraldry, as orders were shouted and horses readied for departure.

    From somewhere deeper within, the soft strains of music seemed to drift from a great hall, mingling with the boisterous laughter of nobles gathered around a roaring feast. I pictured servants weaving between long wooden tables, their arms laden with platters of roast game and spiced breads, the rich aroma of smoky hearth fires curling through the corridors. And in the courtyard below, I saw horses stamping in the chill air, their breath misting like smoke as bright banners snapped overhead — a living, breathing tapestry of medieval life.

    With every step deeper into the ruin, the line between imagination and memory blurred. While standing in a narrow window slit or pausing beside the crumbling walls, I could almost feel the pulse of history thrumming beneath my fingertips — the hopes, fears, and quiet regrets of those who had once walked these same paths. The air itself seemed to hum with echoes of their stories. The castle didn’t feel abandoned; it felt alive with memory, its stones still carrying the weight of oaths sworn, battles fought, and dreams pursued. I felt small — humbled by the centuries pressing in around me — yet strangely powerful, grounded in the knowledge that this fortress had held more than just stone and mortar. It had borne witness to lives shaped by intrigue and loyalty, ambition and love… and now, in my own way, mine was among them..

    In these hushed spaces, the line between past and present blurred until I could no longer tell where my story ended and history began. I could almost see Mary, Queen of Scots moving through these same corridors — her footsteps slow and measured as she sought refuge here in 1566, her body weakened by illness but her spirit still fiercely alive. Perhaps she, too, paused at these narrow windows, looking out over the horizon and wondering which allies she could still trust. Somewhere behind these walls, I imagined nobles bent close together, their voices barely above a whisper as they drafted the infamous “Craigmillar Bond,” plotting to free their queen from a husband she no longer loved — or perhaps to free themselves from the consequences of her reign. History still debates whether she was part of the plot, but standing here centuries later, I could feel the tension of that moment clinging to the stone like moss.

    The castle around me seemed to hum with memory. I could almost hear the clank of armor as knights prepared for campaigns or rode out in search of glory, feel the heavy air of courtly intrigue weaving its way through the great hall, smell the roasting meats and spiced breads of a long-ago feast. It was easy to imagine musicians playing by firelight, their songs mingling with the laughter of nobles plotting alliances that would outlive them all. And somewhere in that tapestry of sound and story, I felt my own heartbeat steady and strong — a quiet rhythm joining theirs across the centuries.

    Like Mary, I, too, had known what it meant to seek refuge after a storm. I, too, had stood at the edge of uncertainty, unsure of who I could trust or how my story might unfold. The people who once called this place home had navigated betrayal, ambition, heartbreak, and hope — just as I had. And in that realization, I felt an unexpected kinship stretch across time. My battles had not been fought with armies or inked in secret pacts, but the resilience that carried me here was made of the same unyielding strength.

    The castle wasn’t just stone and silence — it breathed. It pulsed with memory, with the lingering heartbeat of every soul who had sought shelter, plotted destiny, or dreamed of something greater within its walls. I could feel their presence like a faint echo beneath my feet, a whisper threading through the corridors and curling around my thoughts. And in that stillness, I understood something deeply beautiful: I was not merely a visitor tracing the edges of history. I was a continuation of it — another heartbeat added to the rhythm of this place, another story etched into its weathered stones. My footsteps joined those of queens and courtiers, warriors and dreamers, and in their company, I felt both impossibly small and immeasurably significant — a living thread woven into a centuries-old tapestry.

    📜Epilogue of Becoming: A Tale Still Unfolding
    As the last light of the morning filtered through Craigmillar’s ancient windows, I paused one final time — hand pressed gently against the cold stone, breath caught somewhere between past and present. This day had been more than a photoshoot; it was a reckoning and a rebirth, a weaving together of who I once was and who I am still becoming. I had walked barefoot where queens once plotted, raised a sword where knights once swore oaths, and stood in the silence of centuries that seemed to know my name. The castle had become a mirror, reflecting not just the woman I am now, but every version of me who fought to exist — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along.

     As I turned back for one last look, the castle loomed behind me — not just a monument of stone and centuries, but a mirror of every version of myself I had met within its walls. The warrior. The dreamer. The girl who once doubted her worth. The woman who now claimed it without apology. I stepped out of the gate not as the same person who had walked in, but as someone still writing her story. The wind braided itself through my hair, a promise more than a farewell. I stepped out of the gate, certain the tale would continue, one breath, one page, one day at a time. ✨📜 🌹

    My walk to the park

    Some sneak peaks from my photoshoot:

  • 🌧️ When Plans Change: From Highlands Dreams to Hangry Detours

    Intro: 

    They say Scotland’s weather has a mind of its own — and on October 4, it decided to rewrite my plans entirely. No Highlands, no castles, no Harry Potter bridge… but somehow, the day still found its own kind of magic.

    October 4 — A Day of Cancellations, Cash-Only Chaos, and Culinary Redemption

    October 4 was supposed to be my grand Highlands adventure — twelve full hours of Scottish magic. We were going to drive through sweeping glens, visit castles where Outlander and Game of Thrones filmed, spot some adorable Highland cows, and even see the famous bridge where the Harry Potter train crosses. I was practically buzzing with excitement.

    But about 30 minutes outside Edinburgh, our guide got the call: every tour was canceled due to the weather. Storm Amy had officially taken over Scotland.

    I understood, of course — safety first — but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t seriously disappointed. I’d been looking forward to this day since before I even boarded the plane to Scotland. Instead of misty mountains and lochs, I found myself back at square one in the city with an unexpectedly open day.

    💅 Pivoting the Plan

    Trying to make the best of it, I decided to turn my travel day into a self-care day. A little “treat yourself” moment to make up for the letdown. I booked a mani-pedi appointment nearby, bundled up against the still-gloomy weather, and walked over.

    After waiting about twenty minutes, I was finally called up — only to be told they only take cash. 💸
    No mention of that online. No heads-up during booking. Just… surprise!

    At that point, I could practically feel my blood sugar dropping, my mood following close behind. The disappointment from the tour plus the frustration from the salon had officially made me hangry.

    🥩 The Redemption: A Brazilian Steakhouse Feast

    I decided food was the only logical solution. And not just any food — something hearty, satisfying, and worthy of rescuing the day. So, I treated myself to a Brazilian steakhouse for a late lunch/early dinner.

    It was exactly what I needed. Perfectly grilled meats, fresh sides, and a glass (or two) of something to toast my new plan-free day. Sometimes, a good meal really can reset your whole outlook.

    👗 A Quiet Evening In

    After lunch, I headed back early to my lodging — partly to dry off, partly because I needed to steam and iron my dress for the next day’s plans. It wasn’t the day I’d imagined, but it became a gentle reminder that travel isn’t just about the highlights — it’s also about how we handle the detours.

    Even without the castles and the Highland cows, I still ended the day full (literally and figuratively), cozy, and ready for whatever Scotland had in store next.

    The breakfast I snagged on my walk to my tour meet up point.
    The only other photo I took that day.

  • Scotland Day 3: A Whirlwind of Wind, Rain, and Sweet Treats: Croissants, Harris Tweed, and Stormy Scottish Adventures 🥐👜💨

    💬 Info Blurb:

    October 3 started slow and easy, with crisp air, rising winds 🌬️, and a sense of anticipation for another day of Scottish adventures. From leisurely walks through the city streets to indulgent pastries at Lannan Bakery 🥐, a crafting workshop in St. Andrews 👜, and a wild, stormy ride back to Edinburgh 🌧️💨, this day was all about savoring small joys, meeting fascinating people, and embracing the unexpected. By the end, cozy couches, warm food, and comfy shoes were the ultimate rewards after miles of exploration and excitement.

    🍃 A Slow, Leisurely Start to October 3

    October 3 started out as a slow, leisurely morning. The weather was crisp, the wind picking up — felt like I was approaching Casper, Wyoming. I hung around the common gathering area at my lodging, which had cozy couches, game tables, and a full kitchen for guests.

    They also had a world map where travelers could stick a pin from their hometown. Greeley, CO — you’re officially on the map now! 🗺️ Around it were travel quotes, and I snapped a few of my favorites:

    “People don’t take trips—trips take people.” — John Steinbeck
    “Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
    “Once a year go someplace you’ve never been before.” — Dalai Lama
    “A wise man travels to discover himself.” — James Russell Lowell
    “The journey, not the arrival, matters.” — T.S. Eliot
    “Travel far enough, you meet yourself.” — David Mitchell
    “Travel makes one modest; you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” — Gustav Flaubert

    🥐 Worth the Wait: Lannan Bakery

    After a slow, easy morning, I set out toward Lannan, another irresistible TikTok find I just had to try. The walk there was lovely — crisp air filling my lungs, the wind brushing past like a familiar friend, and beautiful views all around 🏞️. From one hilltop, I could see across the waters toward northern Scotland, which made me even more excited for my Highlands adventure the next day.

    Every step through the neighborhoods felt like walking onto the set of a film 🎬. I adore historical fiction, and for a moment, it felt like Emily in Paris — but make it Dakota in Scotland 🇬🇧✨.

    When I reached the bakery, a queue was already winding down the street (always a good sign!). I joined the back of the line, secretly hoping it would live up to the hype.

    Even if the pastries hadn’t been incredible, the wait was worth it for the company alone. In front of me was a gal from London 🇬🇧 visiting for a friend’s wedding; behind me, a retired local petroleum engineer picking up his weekly bread 🥖. We joked about buying out the bakery before he got his loaf — all in good fun, of course. She gave me some great insight on other places to travel to in Europe, and even London if I make a trip there. The gentleman told me about some of his favorite local spots, which was a great glimpse into how people really live here. I’ve found that while I enjoy some “touristy” things, my favorite travel experiences come from seeing the way locals live — where they shop, eat, and gather.

    When we finally got inside (nearly an hour later!), the smell alone was intoxicating — buttery, sweet, and warm. And options there were! I kick myself for not having taken a photo inside the bakery of the decadent options that were available. I ended up choosing two things:

    🥐 Almond Croissant — twice-baked with almond frangipane and flaked almonds. Just look at the side of this croissant!! It was literally the size of my head! Did I eat every last morsel? You bet I did! Every luxurious crumb was pure buttery perfection.
    🍫 Caramelised Almond & Chocolate Pastry — which I planned to save for breakfast…but definitely ate later that day (oops).

    Final verdict: Lannan was well worth the wait. Next time I’m back in Edinburgh, I might just stockpile those almond croissants — one for every day of my life! 😋💛

    🛍️ Lunch & Crafting: Pho Before the Workshop 🍜👜

    After dropping off my pastries and shopping finds 🧳, it was time for a quick lunch before heading to St. Andrews for the bag-making workshop. I stopped at a bustling mall, four or five stories tall, full of shops and food vendors. With Storm Amy rolling in, everyone was crowding inside, trying to stay warm and dry 🌧️. I chose a bowl of pho — rare steak only, as they were out of brisket. The steaming broth, tender noodles, and fresh herbs were exactly what I needed to warm up and recharge. It wasn’t Pho Duy in Greeley, but it hit the spot perfectly after my morning of walking and bakery indulgence 🥢.

    Once I finished, I made my way to the train station for St. Andrews. Navigating the ticket kiosks was a bit overwhelming at first with all the signage, but the friendly “station grandpa” helped me purchase my tickets both ways, making sure I’d have no issues with the journey 🚆.

    From there, the train ride gave me time to admire the city and countryside, catching glimpses of neighborhoods, coastlines, and historic buildings, all while thinking ahead to designing my Harris Tweed bag 👜.

    🚆 All Aboard: Edinburgh to St. Andrews

    After finishing my warming bowl of pho 🥢, I made my way to the train station to catch the train to St. Andrews for my bag-making workshop. Navigating the ticket kiosks was a bit overwhelming at first, with multiple signs and options, but the friendly “station grandpa” helped me purchase tickets both ways, making sure I’d be all set for the journey. His warmth and humor immediately put me at ease.

    As I waited for the train, I couldn’t help but notice how much the station must have inspired J.K. Rowling when creating the Hogwarts train experience. The brickwork, the columns, the benches — everything felt like it belonged in a magical story ✨.

    While waiting, I met a lovely couple from Belfast, Ireland, on their way to visit family. We shared stories and laughs about the beauty of St. Andrews, and I loved hearing about their grandchildren’s adventures. It’s these kinds of moments — chatting with locals and travelers alike — that make journeys so memorable.

    Once on the train, the scenery didn’t disappoint 🌿🏞️. Rain and wind whipped against the windows as we traveled, but the views of the city, countryside, and coastline made it all worth it. I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I was to be immersed in this mix of culture, history, and breathtaking landscapes.

    The train ride was smooth and allowed me to mentally prepare for the workshop ahead — designing my very own Harris Tweed bag 👜. I was excited to blend traditional Scottish craftsmanship with my own personal style, and the anticipation made the journey fly by.

    👜 Crafting My Own Piece of Scotland: Harris Tweed Workshop

    Once I arrived in St. Andrews, I made my way to the Islander Store for my bag-making workshop. The weather was still rainy 🌧️, so I didn’t take as many photos as I might have, but the excitement of creating my own bag more than made up for it.

    For years, I had wanted a Harris Tweed bag — the traditional handwoven Scottish wool is dyed, spun, and woven entirely in the Outer Hebrides, and it has a protected designation under the Harris Tweed Act of 1993. The quality, craftsmanship, and history behind it are incredible, and I knew that building my own would be a far more memorable experience than simply purchasing one off the shelf.

    Inside the store, I had to decide whether to stick with my originally booked bag or switch to a different style. I debated between a backpack and a medium satchel but eventually settled on the satchel, excited to customize every detail. I chose the body of the bag, the lid, the straps, the handle, and even the crossbody color 🎨.

    During assembly, I found myself helping a few of the other participants with their bags — the photos I have are from these moments. Once all the bags were completed, I realized that my satchel matched my outfit perfectly — clearly, even my bag has great fashion sense 😏.

    By the time the workshop ended, I had a custom Harris Tweed satchel in my hands, built entirely by me — a tangible memory of Scotland, full of color, history, and personal flair 🧵✨. Walking away with it felt like carrying a little piece of Scottish heritage with me.

    🚆 Back to Edinburgh: Stormy Travels & Evening Adventures 🌧️💨

    After finishing the bag workshop in St Andrews, I wasn’t about to walk back to Edinburgh, and let’s be real—my Day 1 Airport Marathon training hadn’t prepared me for a trek through puddles, crowded platforms, and slippery sidewalks! Determined to avoid that, I skipped dinner in St Andrews as originally planned and boogied back to the bus and train station. Storm Amy was rolling in with heavy rain and strong winds 🌧️💨.

    The journey back was intense. The train moved slower than usual, battling the storm, and I couldn’t help but think how much that airport sprint had almost trained me for this kind of chaos 😅. I found a spot in the railcar with a father-daughter duo, and their cheerful banter and video logging of their day helped lighten the mood. The daughter was planning to study English, and she asked for some advice on what to do and remember while pursuing her studies—such a thoughtful conversation in the middle of a stormy train ride!

    The father-daughter duo were delightful company, chatting about their travels and life, while I soaked in the dramatic stormy scenery. By the time we arrived in Edinburgh, everyone was hungry, cold, and ready to refuel.

    💨 Nightlife in Edinburgh

    I was exhausted, hungry and decided to grab a quick bite at The Standing Order, a former bank turned pub. Fun fact: this spot had been recommended to me by someone I know in Italy and the friendly local gentleman from Lannan Bakery earlier that day—clearly, it was meant to be! 🍔

    I was so stared that I forgot to snap photos of the beautiful building-but I did capture my burger, which hit the spot perfectly. Feeling my second wind, I wandered to another nearby pub for some live music and a pint..or more. 🍺🎶.

    While there, I met a lively group of friends who invited me to go dancing 💃🎵. The pub had become too crowded with Scottish men I didn’t care to converse with any longer, so we headed to a nearby club instead. The energy was infectious, and we danced the night away. After one of the friends got drenched in a spilled beer 🍺😅, we moved to the balcony for a bit more space and continued enjoying the music. Eventually, everyone headed off to their friends’ college dorms, and I made my way back to the hostel 🛌.

    Gear That Saved the Day

    If only I had my umbrella—I could’ve Mary Poppin’ed my way through the wind and rain ☔✨. Even so, I was seriously impressed with my Amazon trench coat and De Florance shoes 👢💨. I had purchased the first edition DF Cloud Sneakers specifically for all the walking I knew I’d be doing in Italy, and when the 2.0 version launched, I grabbed an additional color. The improvements to the insole were insane—literally like walking on clouds ☁️. I kept swapping the 2.0 insole into whichever color I wore that day. They were casual enough to wear with a slightly dressed-up outfit yet perfectly supportive for miles of walking. My feet stayed completely dry the entire day—a huge win, since I despise wet socks. I even almost brought my hiking boots from Colorado, but in hindsight, I’m so glad I didn’t—they would have been total overkill.

    🛌 Ending the Day

    After a long, wet, and adventure-filled day, I retruned to my lodging, took a hot shower, and crawled into my bunk for a cozy night’s sleep. Despite the wind, rain, and long miles, I felt fulfilled, inspired, and ready for whatever Scotland had in store next✨.

    You didn’t think I’d not take an Edinburgh Castle picture for the day?!
    Ck4KTFNuYXBjaGF0LzEzLjYwLjAuNTcgKFNNLVM5MjhVOyBBbmRyb2lkIDE1I1M5MjhVU1FTNEJZRzIjMzU7IGd6aXApIFYvTVVTSFJPT00=
    I had joked with friends that I constantly need a green backdrop of this shade to follow me around.
    Stormy coastlines
    St Andrew’s
    My group’s final selections laid out and ready to be assembled.

    Helping out the other’s in my group to get their bags assembled.

    Just look at the lean on these trees!

  • Rain-Kissed Cobblestones and Hidden Corners: A Misty Autumn Day in Edinburgh 🌧️🍁✨

    Info Blurb

    Day 2 in Scotland brought fall colors, castle views, centuries of history, and (of course) rain 🌧️. From wandering through the golden paths of Princes Street Gardens to exploring Old Town, historic cemeteries, Calton Hill for sweeping city views, and finishing with the most decadent crepe imaginable 🍫🥔, I discovered Edinburgh one cobblestone at a time—soaked, happy, and inspired.

    🌳 Morning in the Gardens: A Walk Through Autumn

    The day began quietly, with that soft morning chill I love about fall 🍂. I wandered into Princes Street Gardens, where the Ross Fountain shimmered in copper and turquoise hues against a misty sky 💧. Benches lined the walkway, each one occupied by a story: couples talking, parents playing with their kids, and one man calmly reading as the city woke around him 📖.

    For the first time ever, I saw holly growing wild 🌿—its glossy leaves and bright red berries popping against the grey morning light. The Royal Scots War Memorial stood solemnly nearby, and at its base, a single coral-colored rose 🌹 stood tall, defiant against the drizzle that had started to fall. The view of Edinburgh Castle rising above the gardens was majestic 🏰, like something straight out of a fairytale ✨.

    ☔ Old Town Adventures: Rain, Cobblestones & Potatoes

    The rain didn’t let up as I made my way into Old Town 🌧️, but surprisingly, I didn’t mind—it just added charm to the glistening cobblestones 🌫️😊.

    My first stop was The Writer’s Museum ✍️, celebrating Scotland’s literary giants—Burns, Scott, and Stevenson. As someone with a master’s in English, wandering through the exhibits felt like stepping into a living anthology 📚✨. Manuscripts, letters, and personal artifacts whispered stories of creativity, struggle, and brilliance.

    Next, I passed the Heatherbow Wellhead, a historic fountain that once served as a vital water source ⛲ and is a quiet reminder of Edinburgh’s past.

    I wandered along the Royal Mile, enjoying the mix of old stone buildings, charming shops, and the quiet hum of locals and tourists 🏘️.

    Lunch was a no-brainer: Tempting Tattie (Est. 1974) 🥔, another TikTok find I had saved months ago. Fluffy, buttery, and loaded with toppings, it was exactly what I needed to refuel after a morning of exploring 😋.

    After lunch, I explored Victoria Street 🌈, with its colorful, curved buildings and tiny shops. Rumor has it this street inspired Diagon Alley ⚡. I stopped at The Elephant House 🏠—famously known as the birthplace of Harry Potter. Though rebuilt after a fire, the café gives a glimpse of what J.K. Rowling might have seen while writing 🪄. I grabbed a non-alcoholic Butterbeer 🧋, which was refreshing after a morning of walking.

    I also peeked into The Islander Flagship Store 🧵 for inspiration for a tweed bag workshop I had planned the next day 😉.

    ⚰️ A Walk Through History: Cemeteries, Monuments & Ancient Stones

    After Old Town, I explored the kirk yard 🌿. The cemetery is steeped in history, with links to Bloody Mackenzie 🩸👻, the Covenanter’s Prison 🏰🔒, and even J.K. Rowling’s inspiration ✨📖.

    🩸 Bluidy Mackenzie

    Sir George Mackenzie, known as “Bluidy Mackenzie,” was a 17th-century Scottish lawyer and Lord Advocate. In 1679, following the Battle of Bothwell Bridge, he imprisoned over 1,200 Covenanters—Protestants who resisted the Crown’s attempts to impose Anglican practices in the Church of Scotland. These prisoners were held in harsh conditions in what became known as the Covenanter’s Prison, located within Greyfriars Kirkyard. Many suffered and died due to mistreatment and overcrowding. Mackenzie’s brutal enforcement of the King’s policies earned him the grim nickname “Bluidy Mackenzie” (Edinburgh News).

    Today, visitors can see the Black Mausoleum, Mackenzie’s burial site, which has become infamous for reports of paranormal activity. The area is said to be haunted by the so-called Mackenzie Poltergeist, with numerous accounts of unexplained phenomena, including cold spots, scratches, and even physical attacks on visitors

    The Covenanter’s Prison

    The Covenanter’s Prison, a section of the kirkyard, was used to detain these dissenters under extreme conditions in 1679. Some were held for weeks, others, months, without proper food, water, or shelter, and many succumbed to illness. Today, the area is locked by the Scottish government, reportedly due to extreme paranormal activity 👻💀 ( Covenanter).

    I felt completely fine walking up to the gated section—but as soon as I stuck my arm through the bars to take a photo, an instant, heavy, overwhelming pit in my stomach hit me. Chills, goosebumps, and a real sense of the intense history of suffering lingered long after I pulled back 🌫️😳.

    🪄 J.K. Rowling’s Inspiration

    Greyfriars Kirkyard is also a place of literary inspiration. J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, lived in Edinburgh during the time she wrote the books. The city’s rich history and architecture influenced her work, and some of the names in Greyfriars Kirkyard served as inspiration for characters in her novels. For instance, Thomas Riddell’s grave is believed to have inspired the name of Lord Voldemort, whose birth name was Tom Riddle. Additionally, the name “McGonagall” is thought to have been inspired by the grave of William McGonagall, a 19th-century poet (CityDays).

    Nearby, the Stones of Scotland offered a fascinating geological twist 🪨. In the center, there’s a single tree and a curious rock with a footprint carved into it—like a mini Arthurian legend waiting to be discovered 🏰. Of course, I had to try fitting my own foot in the imprint… and voilà, it fit perfectly! I may have felt like Arthur reaching for Excalibur, if only for a moment ⚔️✨.

    The Robert Burns Monument stood proudly nearby, a tribute to Scotland’s beloved poet, while Jacob’s Ladder, possibly the steepest steps I’ve ever seen 🪜, offered more than just a literal climb. Named for the biblical story of Jacob’s dream—a ladder stretching from earth to heaven, connecting the mortal and the divine—it felt almost symbolic as I observed it. Even from the top, the sheer height and angle made me imagine each step carrying a sense of aspiration and wonder, like a bridge between history, legend, and the Edinburgh skyline 🌌✨.

    🌄 Views from Above: Calton Hill & Scott Monument

    Next, I headed to Calton Hill 🏞️, one of Edinburgh’s most iconic vantage points. The climb itself was gentle—thankfully, coming from high-elevation Colorado gave me an edge 😅. I’m pretty sure in a few weeks, that same climb might not feel so easy (laugh)!

    The panoramic views from the top were breathtaking 🌅✨. From up there, I could see the city stretching to the water, hills rolling into the distance, and rooftops glinting in the soft autumn light.

    The hill is dotted with historic monuments. The National Monument, inspired by the Parthenon in Athens, was meant to honor Scottish soldiers who died in the Napoleonic Wars 🏛️. Nearby, the Nelson Monument, built to commemorate Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar, looks like a giant telescope pointing skyward 🔭. I wandered among the monuments, imagining the history they’ve silently witnessed over centuries.

    From Calton Hill, I could also take in Scott Monument, the towering Gothic tribute to Sir Walter Scott 🏰📚. Its intricate stonework and spires are breathtaking from afar, and the sheer scale makes it feel like the city itself is paying homage to one of Scotland’s greatest literary figures. Standing there, high above Edinburgh, the combination of history, architecture, and natural beauty felt truly spellbinding ✨.

    🍫 Decadence in the Evening: CORO Chocolate Café

    By the time I made it back toward my lodging, it was the perfect hour for a treat. I had saved CORO Chocolate Café via TikTok months ago, and it did not disappoint 😍. Located just around the corner from where I was staying, I decided to build my own crepe—creepy in name only, IYKYK 👀. Mine had salted caramel sauce, banana, pecans, and dark chocolate shavings 🍌🍫🌰. Each bite was pure decadence, perfectly ending a day that had already been filled with history, literature, fall colors, and just enough rain to make the cobblestones gleam.

    As I savored the last bite, I couldn’t help but reflect on the day: a full Edinburgh experience, blending history, architecture, literature, and pure culinary joy. Walking back to my room, I felt happy, inspired, and ready for whatever adventure awaited me next in this captivating city ✨.

    Photos

    This is going to be a lot of photos. I tried to keep them as group together as possible.





    This bird looks like a dragon to me. I had to do a double take!
    Ross Fountain
    Princes Street Park
    Park Reading
    Holly
    Royal Scot War Memorial
    The Official Royal House when they are in Scotland
    Robert Burns Monument

  • October 1: Scotland Part 1.2: Mystery, Haggis, and Haunted Alleyways: My Enchanted Arrival in Scotland

    Info Blurb

    What started as a simple connecting flight turned into an unexpectedly charming adventure—complete with a vanishing earbud, a bus ticket quest, a knightly dinner companion, and a late-night ghost tour. My first day in Scotland had a little bit of everything: mystery, mishaps, and magic. ✨

    🛫 Flight #2 – The Mysterious Vanishing Earbud 🎧💀✈️

    After my airport marathon victory (see Scotland, Part 1.1), I was more than ready to sit down, catch my breath, and enjoy a peaceful flight. I found my seat, buckled in, queued up my playlist 🎶… and then—poof. My earbud vanished 😱.

    One second, it was happily nestled in my ear 🎧. The next, it straight-up Houdini’d itself into another dimension 🌀. I froze, did the awkward pat-down-check-the-floor dance 🕵️‍♀️, then peered under the seat. My seat neighbors even joined the hunt—the person behind me snapped a few photos 📸 as we all searched every crack and corner. Nothing. Not even a hint, as if the wee thing had sprouted legs 🦵 and scampered off to explore Edinburgh on its own

    The flight attendants, bless them 🙏, even helped me look once everyone had deplaned. We scoured the seat pockets, the floor, the carpet seams—anywhere it could’ve rolled or bounced. Still nothing. I took a picture of the sad, empty plane floor 📷 as evidence of my earbud’s mysterious disappearance.

    RIP, little buddy 💔. You were good while you lasted 🎧💀.

    🚌 The Great Bus Ticket Adventure 🚌🗺️

    After saying my final goodbyes to the vanished earbud, I stepped off the plane ready for whatever Scotland had waiting for me next 🌄. First mission: figure out how to get into town.

    Now, I’ve navigated airports before, but trying to buy a bus ticket after a full day of travel brain 🧠💤? That’s an Olympic event in itself 🏅. A few wrong lines ❌, one machine that refused to cooperate 🖥️, and at least two “Wait, am I even in the right place?” moments later—I finally had my ticket in hand 🎟️. Victory! 🏆

    The bus ride itself was calm, scenic 🌳🏰, and exactly what I needed to decompress. I watched the city roll by—stone buildings 🏘️, green hills 🌿, a few locals walking dogs 🐕 that looked way too happy for how tired I was—and let it sink in: I was really here 🌄.

    Next stop: finding my lodging 🏠. Or… at least trying to.

    🏠 Checking In… Almost 🛎️😅

    Getting to my lodging felt like the final stretch of an already eventful day. I followed my map 🗺️, took a few wrong turns (in true Dakota fashion 😉), and finally found the door—success! Or so I thought.

    I punched in the entry code… nothing ❌. Tried again. Still nothing ❌. At that point, I stood there, luggage in hand 🧳, sweat threatening to make a comeback 💦, and just laughed 😆. Of course, I couldn’t get checked in—the worker wouldn’t be back for another 30 minutes ⏳. Why would anything today go smoothly?

    And let’s be honest—I’m someone who does not do well when I’m hangry 😤🍴. Luckily, there was a cozy little place nearby 🍴 that looked promising for food and a quick break ☕, so off I went. If I couldn’t get inside, I might as well feed the hanger before it took control 🍽️.

    🍽️ The First Meal (and My Introduction to Haggis) 🥘👑

    Just a few steps away, I found a cozy spot that promised hearty Scottish fare 🐟 and a quiet place to regroup. I dropped my bags 🧳, ordered a drink 🍺, and decided to dive right in—when in Scotland, try the haggis, right?

    It arrived fried 🍳, which I figured was a good sign. Everything’s better fried… and you know what? It actually was! Crispy on the outside, flavorful on the inside 😋, and paired with a rich, savory sauce 🍯 that pulled it all together. I went in cautiously and came out a haggis believer (well… at least the fried kind).

    To top it off, my dining companion—if you can call it that—was a full suit of knight’s armor 🛡️ standing directly behind me. Between the cozy lighting 💡, the fried haggis 🍽️, and my silent, shiny guardian, I couldn’t help but feel a bit like a princess 👑 enjoying her royal feast. Little did I know, Scotland had even more fairytale moments waiting just around the corner ✨.

    The place was warm and welcoming 🏡, with the kind of relaxed buzz that makes you forget how tired you are 😌. After polishing off my meal and feeling properly recharged 🔋, it was finally time to head back and check in for real—round two, here we go 🏠.

    🗺️ Exploring the Neighborhood (and an Unexpected Ghostly Encounter) 👻🌙

    Once I finally settled in, I couldn’t resist heading back out to explore 🏞️. The evening air was cool and crisp, with fall leaves swirling around 🍂, the kind that wakes you up no matter how long your day’s been 😴. The streets glowed softly under old lamplight 🏮, cobblestones slick from an earlier mist 🌫️, and everything felt just a little enchanted ✨—like I’d wandered straight into a storybook 📖.

    I meandered past stone buildings 🏘️ and narrow lanes, catching glimpses of cozy pubs 🍺 and tucked-away shops 🛍️, all humming with quiet life. It was the kind of place where every turn felt like it had a secret waiting to be discovered 🗝️.

    And then, as if the night wasn’t magical enough already 🌌, I signed up for a free ghost tour 👻. Because who doesn’t love a little haunted history to round out their first night in Scotland?

    During the tour, I got to see the crypt of Bloody Mackenzie 🩸⚰️ (Outlander fans will know who this is) and, from behind a locked gate, the Covenanter’s Prison 🏰🔒—an area notorious for extreme paranormal activity 👻💀. The Scottish government keeps it locked unless you sign heavy legal documents 📝⚠️, so just getting a glimpse felt like stepping into a forbidden world.

    We wandered through centuries-old closes and courtyards 🏰 as the guide spun eerie tales of restless spirits and ancient mischief 👻🕯️. Afterward, I actually looked up some of the stories online, and—surprisingly—they are all based on real legends and beliefs 🧐📚. The chill in the air might’ve been the wind… or maybe not. Either way, it was the perfect ending to a day that had already felt like three rolled into one ⏳.

    By the time I made it back to my room 🛏️, the city had quieted 🌙, and so had I—finally ready for some well-earned rest before whatever adventure came next ✨.

    Welcome to Edinburgh! (well outside the airport anyway).
    I felt very safe while eating.
    DELICIOUS food, great atmosphere, and friendly service

    Fried haggis I don’t remember the name of this, but YUM!

    Now a variety of pictures from just out walking close to where I was staying, basically around Princes Street.

    The came the GHOST TOUR!

    The walk back to my bed had some gorgeous views also.

    This picture does not do justice to how tall this monument actually stands.

  • Fog, Sweat & Gate Changes: How I Signed Up for an Accidental Airport Marathon

    Info Blurb: What started as a simple connection quickly turned into an endurance test. I found myself sprinting through terminals like an athlete in a comedy sketch—dodging slow walkers, praying the gate agents were still awake, and questioning if I’d accidentally signed up for a full-on airport marathon. Between fog delays, missing stairs, and unexpected cardio, I discovered that airports secretly double as gyms.

    October 1, 2025 — Heading to Scotland

    There I was, standing nearly at the back of Flight #1, and the stair truck was nowhere to be seen. ✈️ We had to circle the airport for 20 minutes because of fog (glad we were safe, but my heart rate was starting to climb 💓). Then—another delay with the stairs. No need to panic… right?

    Then I looked at my boarding info for my second flight: gate change from A (where I was deplaning—hopefully soon!) to B23. Gulp 😬 Good thing I had perfect running attire on… NOT! 🏃‍♀️

    When the stairs finally arrived, cheers erupted from inside the cabin—followed by the slowest-moving humans I’ve ever witnessed. Come on, people! It’s not that early—move! Please! 😅

    Finally, my feet hit the ground. I darted about 200 meters to the terminal, up a flight of escalators, bypassed the next one, and took the stairs—two at a time—with my bags in hand. 🎒 Paused for about 20 seconds to figure out which way “B” was, and then took off again.

    The “walk” through the terminal felt like a shopping mall 🛍️—so many stores and displays, all right where you had to walk. I really wish people came with brake lights and turn signals for when they suddenly stop or veer in front of you to look at souvenirs. 😆

    Anyway, I finally made it through the shopping gauntlet—at least 400 meters, if not more—to customs into Germany. Luckily, there was no one in my line! The customs officer sure took his sweet time deciding if I was really me, though. 😂 Stamp in hand, I dashed off toward B1–4… I had a long way to go, and my gate had officially closed one minute ago. But I wasn’t giving up.

    Those conveyor-belt walking platforms? Absolute lifesavers. I used three of them—plus my “power-walking at lunch” training (thanks, GDC ladies!)—and zoomed past the gates. 🏃‍♀️ I had to turn left and go downstairs for mine. I literally ran down the ramps. Feet burning 🔥, jacket stuck to my arms, sweat dripping from my hat brim… I kept going—just 100 meters left!

    About 50 meters away, I saw a large group of people… but were they at B23 or B24? I couldn’t tell. Guess what? They were at B23—I freaking made it! 🙌

    Turns out, flight #2 had a 10-minute delay, and I had been too busy running (and focusing on my breathing) to notice. Relief washed over me—I had made it! 🎉

    And then… we waited. About 15 minutes to board the bus that would take us to our plane. Honestly, at this point, I could have walked there—and since I was already warmed up, probably even faster. 🚶‍♀️ Oh well. Once on the bus, we pulled away… and then stopped again about 500 meters from the plane. Were we walking? Were we going? 🤷‍♀️ Nobody knew.

    Finally, movement. The packed bus—full of people in coats—was getting steamy and a bit smelly. 😬 When the doors opened, fresh, cool air hit my face. We all stumbled out like cattle 🐄 toward the stairs.

    My poor, tired lamberfeeties were thrilled to finally sit down. I gave a silent sorry to anyone unfortunate enough to be near me in that jacket after my mad dash. But happily, I’m on the plane and heading toward my destination. ✈️

    Now… let’s see how easily I can navigate from there! 😅🏴

    Setting off!
    Well…this is a first.
    Not moving.
    Extremely happy I purchased and brought this chargeable mini fan. Worked wonders to help cool me down after my ‘workout’.

  • September 27, 2025-Castles, Catwalks, and Chinatown: First Day in Milan

    Today I got to see a real-life castle! 🏰 No, seriously—an actual castle, the kind you read about in storybooks or imagine in a movie scene. I half expected a trumpet to sound from one of the towers announcing that jousting was about to begin. Milan instantly felt larger-than-life, buzzing with energy and history. The castle itself stopped me in my tracks. Massive stone walls stretched out before me, strong and solid, as if they’d been holding their ground for centuries just waiting for me to finally show up. Walking through the archway, I half expected the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Instead, it was tourists snapping photos and kids chasing pigeons — but that didn’t take away from the magic.

    What amazed me most was the mix of grandeur and accessibility — here was a fortress that once guarded dukes and nobles, and now I could just wander right in, no velvet ropes or “keep out” signs stopping me. To get there, I even walked across what was once a moat and wooden bridge, now paved over in concrete, and I couldn’t help but picture ladies in gowns and guards on horseback crossing the same path centuries before. The red brick against the blue Milanese sky looked like something straight from a painting. Standing there, I realized this was the first castle I’d ever seen up close in my life, and it made me feel both very small and wildly lucky. 🍀

    Leaving the castle behind, we wandered through a leafy park that made me feel like I’d stepped straight into a Bridgerton promenade. 🌸 Couples strolled arm in arm, kids darted around with gelato cones, and I half expected a string quartet to start playing in the background. From there, the city shifted, and it quickly became obvious that Milan was buzzing with something extra — Fashion Week. Everywhere I turned, it felt like the sidewalks had transformed into runways. People weren’t just walking; they were strutting, each outfit louder or sleeker than the last. And there I was, happily gawking at it all, my comfy “tourist shoes” squeaking against the cobblestones. 👟 Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any more unexpected, we turned a corner… and landed in Chinatown.

    Before diving into the bustle of Chinatown, there was one very important stop: gelato. 🍨 My first gelato in Italy! Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it could live up to the hype, but one spoonful in and I realized every rave review I’d ever heard was completely justified. I chose caramello salato (salted caramel) and chocolate chip, and it was creamy, smooth, and not-too-sweet — like ice cream’s more sophisticated, better-dressed cousin (fitting for Milan during Fashion Week). Standing there with gelato in hand, castle still fresh in my mind, and stylish people strutting by, I felt like I was tasting Italy in the best possible way.

    As soon as we stepped into Chinatown, my senses went into overdrive. The smell of sizzling noodles mixed with the aroma of fresh pastries had me reminding myself not to shop with my nose. One shop had bubble tea so colorful it looked like it belonged in a paint store, another had shelves of snacks I couldn’t pronounce but desperately wanted to try. I caught myself grinning like a kid in a candy shop — except this candy shop also sold roasted duck and dim sum. 🥡 For a brief moment, I forgot I was in Milan at all… until I glanced up and remembered the stylish Italians casually strutting past with shopping bags in hand.

    After sauntering through Chinatown, we made our way to the “big buildings.” 🏙️ Yes, there were a few skyscrapers, but nothing compared to New York, Chicago, or even Denver. Still, the kids (ages 14, 12, and 9) were such troupers, pointing out little details they thought I’d enjoy. I should probably mention this wasn’t a solo trip. My new friend had invited me along while she got her laptop fixed, and traveling with her and her three boys made navigating the trains much smoother than if I’d been fumbling through with my very limited Italian. Standing there with them, gazing up at sleek towers after starting the day in an ancient fortress, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d unrolled a scroll of history that stretched from castles to catwalks to glass skyscrapers — all in one day.

    Next on the agenda: food. Because let’s be honest, all great adventures eventually lead to something delicious. 🍴 After wandering past the “big buildings,” our stomachs made their demands loud and clear — growling louder than the traffic and staging a full-on protest. We all knew one thing for sure: we needed to sit down. Our feet had done enough exploring for the day.

    The solution? A Chinese restaurant. Yep, my first full meal in the fashion capital of Italy wasn’t pasta or pizza but spring rolls and noodles. And honestly? No regrets. The funniest part? The server handed me an Italian menu instead of an English one. 🇮🇹 Which means either I’m blending in better than I thought, or I’ve officially leveled up to “passable tourist.” I’ll take the win!

    The boys dug right in, chopsticks clattering, while I happily followed their lead. The flavors were bold and comforting, and it felt almost surreal to be sitting in Milan eating dishes that reminded me more of Denver’s Chinatown than Italy. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony — one day I’m eating giant salads in Busto, the next I’m feasting on Chinese soup under the shadow of Milan’s skyscrapers.

    With full bellies, tired legs, and eyelids growing heavier by the minute on the tiniest travelers, we began our trek back to the station. 🚉 The streets pulsed with life — groups of friends gathered around glowing café tables, glasses clinking like little bells, bursts of laughter rolling out into the night air. Just hours before I’d been standing inside the walls of a centuries-old castle, and now I was strolling through a city buzzing with neon lights and midnight chatter. The contrast was striking, but somehow seamless — as if Milan was reminding me that history and modern life don’t compete here, they dance together. I couldn’t understand the words drifting out from the tables, but I didn’t need to; the joy was unmistakable, the kind that wraps around you like a melody you don’t know but still hum along to. As I walked past, I found myself smiling and thinking: one day soon, I’ll find my own crew to share evenings like this with, voices rising together in the music of belonging. And in that moment, I couldn’t help but feel that God was already preparing those friendships — weaving His plans quietly into the laughter, the light, and even the long walk back to the station. ✨

    As the train carried us back toward home, I thought about everything we’d crammed into a single day — history, fashion, food, laughter, and friendship. Milan didn’t just dazzle me; it reminded me why I came here in the first place: to soak in every moment, big or small, and let Italy surprise me. More than that, it reminded me that God is in the details — in castles that stand like whispers from another age, in gelato that melts sweetly on a bustling street, and in the simple joy of sharing a meal with new friends. Each piece of the day felt like a gift, stitched together with grace, and I can’t wait to see what story He writes for tomorrow. 🙏

  • September 27, 2025-Trapped at the Exit: My Italian Grocery Adventure

    Forget sightseeing—the FIRST real adventure today was navigating the grocery aisles! The store, only a short walk from the apartment, felt similar to walking into a smaller neighborhood grocery store back home. You could tell some patrons were regulars, some hadn’t been in for a while, and then there was me—I’d never been there before.

    I chose one of the yellow baskets on wheels to gather my items. I wasn’t planning to buy too much, so a basket was perfect—and it saved my arm strength for carrying everything back. 😅

    Thanks to TikTok videos, I knew that when shopping in the produce section, you’re expected to put on gloves before touching anything. I got that part right. What I didn’t know was that you also have to weigh the produce yourself and print a sticker for each item to scan at checkout. I discovered this only after making it to the self-checkout—so back to the produce section I went! 🙈

    Observing the aisles was fascinating. The pasta aisle (no, not every Italian makes their pasta from scratch every meal!) was enormous. The olive oil section? Endless. Processed foods? Almost nonexistent. There were no flavored creamers, no sugary cereals towering on the shelves, and the eggs weren’t even refrigerated—they sat out neatly on display!

    Another section that caught my attention was the coffee aisle. Rows upon rows of espresso in small packages—no giant tubs in sight. Starbucks does make an appearance on the shelves, but overall the ingredient lists seem shorter and less chemical-filled than what I’m used to. I might have to ask someone back in the States to send me a picture for a proper comparison.

    To avoid testing my Italian at the register, I opted for the self-checkout lanes—something I know well from home. Later I learned these are a newer addition to Italian stores. They’re definitely ahead of us in one way, though: reusable bags. Italians have been charging for bags for at least a decade!

    Checkout itself turned into quite the comedy. The machine I chose kept glitching, and the attendant had to keep coming over. Of course I’d pick that one! She was kind and patient, even when I had to circle back to weigh my fruit and print the missing stickers. Google Translate’s photo feature came in handy at the register, too. Finally, the struggle was over… or so I thought.

    I turned toward the exit and saw a gate. Easy, right? Just walk up and it opens? Nope. The security guard looked on, chuckling, as I fumbled with it. Finally, I took a breath and managed to say: “Sono americana, il mio italiano non è buono.” (I’m American, my Italian is not good.) He smiled, said “ricevuta” (receipt), and pointed to a small scanner. Ah-ha! I scanned my receipt, the gate opened, and I slipped out—quickly and a little embarrassed. 😅

    I didn’t buy much, but the prices were noticeably more affordable than in Colorado. Back at the house, I cooked a meal as a thank-you to the family I’m staying with. They (and one of the daughters’ friends) seemed to enjoy my attempt at enchilada casserole. It wasn’t my best—some ingredients were missing—but it was tasty nonetheless. I wonder if the larger grocery stores might have more of what I’m used to.

    If something as everyday as grocery shopping feels like an adventure, imagine what the rest of this year will bring! I haven’t even been here a week yet!

    My Italian attempt at Enchilada Casserole 🇲🇽➡️🇮🇹. Tortillas, chicken, bell peppers, tomatoes, and not one but TWO cheeses 🧀✨. Less ‘authentic recipe,’ more ‘happy accident with extra cheese’—but hey, isn’t that what cooking abroad is all about? 😅🍴 Totally a new creation, but a delicious one!

  • September 26, 2025-Meetings, Schedules, and a Dash of Chaos

    Once I woke up (2 AM and I are much closer friends than I’d like these days), I got ready for a day that promised to be filled with a variety of tasks. I had a follow-up interview at one school and a meeting at another. The meeting to finalize my timetable (schedule), as well as those of the other conversation teachers, was lively.

    I used Google Translate to follow along, since I could only catch phrases here and there. Let me tell you—listening to teachers in Italy discuss courses and schedules is very similar to back in the States. I found myself chuckling at the banter, smiling as it reminded me of the passionate discussions I used to have with my own department in years past.

    A dear friend—whom I’m so grateful to for helping me line up my position at the school in the first place—offered to drive me to the second meeting. There, I spoke with a woman I had interviewed with earlier in the year about where it might be most beneficial to have me teach. Once I receive my timetable from the first school, I’ll give it to her so she can decide whether I’ll be teaching full classes, small groups, or one-on-one.

    After the meeting, we walked to a local café for our evening caffè (coffee). The coffee here is REAL coffee—no corn-syrup-laden flavors, no artificial sweeteners, no milk, and no iced versions. (That last one might be a challenge for me to get used to… but I haven’t perished yet. 😅) Coffee is served in small cups, and most people simply stand at the counter, drinking the rich, decadent liquid in one or two gulps. I prefer to savor mine slowly, so that’s another adjustment—learning to drink it quickly!

    It may only be my first week, but I can already feel Italy shaping me. All I know is that this place is keeping me on my toes. Who knows—by the end of my time here, I may be speaking Italian, standing at the counter, and swiftly finishing my coffee!

  • September 25, 2025-Lost Luggage No More

    The jet lag and time change are no joke. I thought I’d be fine, but they’re kicking my gluteus maximus more than I anticipated. This is exactly why I planned to arrive earlier than when I’ll be teaching—to give myself time to adjust. The big adventure for the 25th? Tracking down my luggage, which had decided to take an extra ride to Munich.

    I walked to the train station easily enough—only had to check my GPS twice to confirm my turns (and I was right both times!). At the station, I bought a ticket to the airport. Knowing the airport name helped, and thankfully the woman at the ticket counter spoke English. Still, somewhere along the line I misunderstood… because I ended up on the wrong train.

    Yep. I hopped on a train going in the opposite direction! 😅 Once I realized, I got off, admitted to a Polizia officer that I was lost, and he kindly pointed me toward the correct train—telling me to “just get on.” That one did take me to the airport, where the next chapter of this saga began.

    The airport looked like DIA—under construction. I don’t remember it being that way when I first arrived… was I really that sleep deprived? I found signs for “Lost and Found,” but they also said “Staff and Crew,” so I assumed it wasn’t for me. I trekked across the airport searching for another Lost and Found. Nothing. Getting annoyed, I re-read my email: Terminal 1, Lost and Found. The only one I’d seen was the staff door. Finally, I asked for help at a currency exchange desk. The woman kindly explained that the frosted glass door was, in fact, for me—it would have opened automatically if I’d walked closer. 🤦‍♀️

    So back I went, retracing my steps. Sure enough, the door opened when I got near. Inside, I went through security (like TSA—no problem), but couldn’t find Air Canada on any of the boards. I saw United, so since I’d booked through them, I thought that was my best bet. Fifteen minutes later, I was told nope—wrong line. Air Canada was in the other (much longer) line. United wasn’t even there anymore!

    So, into the long line I went. I waited at least an hour and a half. I felt especially bad for moms wrangling little ones while trying to claim lost luggage. Honestly, I considered myself lucky to only have one missing bag. While waiting, I practiced Italian on my Kindle app—every little bit helps!

    Finally, my turn. Based on how long others had taken, I braced for at least 30 minutes. But I was finished in under 10! Filing a claim right away had cut down the process, and I still had my luggage tag sticker, which matched my bag exactly. Huge time saver.

    WOOHOO—reunited at last! 🎉 My bag and I had a long walk back across the airport (of course, the exit was right by the currency exchange desk I’d asked at earlier 🙃). Then it was back on the train to Busto, followed by a 10–15 minute walk with my VERY loud suitcase—wheels clattering over cobblestones late at night. (Pro tip: not recommended!)

    At last, I reached my gate, hauled my 70-pound suitcase up two flights of stairs, and collapsed with pride. A year ago, I was still rebuilding strength after cancer treatment and surgeries. To carry all that—umbrella dangling from my wrist, just in case of rain—and make it home felt like such a win.

    The “lost” is lost no more, and my tired feet got the rest they deserved that night.

    Arriving with one less bag than I took off with….