Our employer, a large international oil and gas company, strongly discouraged employees from venturing into the interior.

Naturally, four adventurous women decided that venturing into the interior sounded like an excellent idea!

There were four of us: two Canadians, an Australian, and me, the American. We all lived in the same residential compound in Luanda and wanted to see more of Angola before our assignments came to an end.

Being the lead troublemaker, I started researching short excursions into Angola’s interior. That’s when I found a Portuguese gentleman who organized private expeditions. His website was rather rudimentary, but he replied promptly to my inquiry and proposed an itinerary that sounded irresistible.

His name was Paulo...

He had lived in Angola for decades, raised his family there, and clearly loved the country. His surprisingly reasonable price included transportation, accommodation, meals, and visits to the Mucubal nomads and Iona National Park.

Once I told my husband about our proposed adventure, he was less than enthusiastic.

“Please don’t get me fired,” he pleaded. It was a perfectly reasonable request, considering the adventure we were planning.

And as if venturing into Angola’s interior weren’t adventurous enough, we also had to fly TAAG, Angola’s national airline, which our employer strongly discouraged us from using.

But driving would take days... So we chose the airplane!

Four Hours Early, and Still No Guarantees

Our flight to Namibe was scheduled for one in the afternoon, and we arrived at Luanda airport at nine in the morning... Four hours early... for a domestic flight!

Even our personal driver wasn’t confident we’d actually get on that darn plane. We had tickets, of course, but apparently having a ticket and actually getting on an airplane were two entirely different stories.

When we entered the terminal and saw the enormous crowds waiting, we understood his concern. Some passengers sat on the floor, boxes and plastic bags were everywhere, while others had reportedly arrived the previous evening. Yet even with our tickets in hand, we had little confidence we’d actually get aboard.

“This is Africa,” our driver patiently announced... and yet, somehow, we boarded.

When we landed in Namibe, Paulo was waiting with his Land Cruiser. He loaded our luggage, and we set off on a journey of several hours into the interior.

As darkness fell, the landscape became increasingly remote, and eventually, all four of us lost mobile reception. Above us stretched an extraordinary blanket of stars, but below that magnificence, four women were beginning to have second thoughts.

Our Prospective Murderer

Somewhere along the journey, Paulo stopped the Land Cruiser in the middle of nowhere.

“Excuse me, ladies. I need to water the flowers.” With that announcement, he stepped out into the darkness and took the car keys with him.

We looked at one another. Why did he take the keys? What if this man wasn’t who he claimed to be? What if we’d entrusted our lives to a serial killer?

We were hours from civilization without mobile reception, and nobody knew precisely where we were. For several terrifying minutes, four supposedly intrepid travelers contemplated their own disappearances.

Then, mercifully, Paulo returned to the Land Cruiser.

“Tudo bem?“ (Everything okay?) he asked cheerfully.

“Sim, tudo bem.“ (Yes, everything’s okay.) We answered, smiling politely.

We looked at one another and silently celebrated that our prospective murderer had returned from watering the flowers without incident!

Naturally, none of us confessed what we’d been thinking.

When we finally reached Omauha Camp, the accommodations looked perfectly comfortable, considering we were out in the middle of nowhere. Built among enormous rock formations, the camp had an extraordinary dining room sheltered beneath a massive boulder, with stone walls, wooden furniture, and a proper kitchen.

The rooms were sparsely furnished, but the beds were neatly made, with fresh-looking, perfectly ironed linens. And thankfully, there were proper ablution facilities within the camp.

Paulo had thoughtfully arranged individual rooms for us, but we immediately asked whether we could all sleep in one room. He moved us to a room with two bunk beds, and we were perfectly happy with that arrangement.

Before exiting our room, he warned us not to wander outside after dark. There were wild animals in the area, possibly even leopards, he said. Thankfully, our room had its own toilet, so we wouldn’t have to venture outside in the darkness.

The moment he left, we pushed a table against the door, then chairs, anything that might prevent an unexpected visitor from entering. Whether we were protecting ourselves from leopards or Paulo was anyone’s guess...

We slept behind our improvised barricade.

Banana Pancakes and the Mucubal Nomads

Morning arrived without incident, and when we emerged from our room, Paulo was already busy preparing breakfast.

“When you ladies have finished your ablutions, breakfast will be ready,” he announced cheerfully.

Ablutions! Such a wonderfully familiar expression from southern Africa.

Breakfast was delicious: banana pancakes, accompanied by fresh fruit and coffee… what a lovely way to start our day of adventure in the Angolan wilderness!

As we enjoyed our breakfast, we couldn’t help laughing to ourselves about how we’d thought this perfectly nice Portuguese gentleman could have been a potential murderer the night before.

Our mission that morning was to find the Mucubal nomads, traditional cattle herders who moved through the Angolan wilderness in search of fresh grazing land and water.

Paulo loaded the gifts he’d brought for the Mucubal families: cooking oil, sugar, cassava flour for preparing funge, onions, and other necessities. Among the items were pencils and small booklets.

Finding the Mucubals was no simple matter.

Once their cattle exhausted the pastures in one area, the families moved on to greener pastures, as they say. Paulo had already been making inquiries about their whereabouts and the direction in which they were traveling, a day before our arrival.

With a very serious look on his face, Paulo reminded us about the landmines. We were not to wander off the established tracks. When nature called, Paulo would find a discreet bush where we could relieve ourselves without straying into potentially dangerous terrain.

Unlike our fears about Paulo, this danger was very real.

A sobering fact: Angola has extended its deadline for clearing the remaining landmines to 2030. The work remains unfinished.

We drove for more than an hour, following dusty tracks through the wilderness, occasionally encountering a solitary Mucubal man walking along the way. Paulo would stop and ask directions, using Portuguese mixed with words from the local language. There were animated exchanges, gestures, and pointing before we continued.

Eventually, we caught up with a group of Mucubal families and their cattle at a temporary encampment.

Paulo instructed us to remain in the vehicle while he approached several men. We watched him talking and gesticulating, negotiating permission for our visit and photographs.

Then he turned toward us, smiling, and said, “Okay, ladies. They’ve invited us in.”

We helped Paulo unload the provisions, which the women received with big smiles. One modest item seemed particularly appreciated: a little tub of Vaseline, useful for moisturizing the skin and lips.

Mary, the Australian, had brought balloons, and once she showed the children how to inflate them, they were absolutely delighted, and laughter rang throughout the encampment. Today, knowing more about their environmental consequences, I wouldn’t bring balloons into the wilderness, but I still remember the children’s excitement and giggles.

And naturally, I reached for my camera.

The women were initially cautious about being photographed, but gradually they relaxed. Their distinctive ompota headdresses, colorful fabrics, and beautiful copper coils fascinated me. The vivid colors of the fabrics stood out beautifully against their deep, dark skin. Yet one of the most memorable scenes had nothing to do with clothing or jewelry. It was how the women provided water for their cattle.

Water in the Wilderness

We watched two of the Mucubal women digging deep holes, perhaps four or five feet down, to reach groundwater. One woman stood inside a hole, drawing water with a bucket and pouring it into a wooden trough where the thirsty cattle gathered to drink.

It was physically demanding work, carried out with remarkable ingenuity and ease.

Among the Mucubal, women traditionally care for the family and draw water for the cattle, while men herd and protect the livestock.

For the Mucubal, cattle are everything: their wealth, their livelihood, and an essential part of their cultural identity. Their nomadic lifestyle revolves around their herds, moving from place to place in search of grazing land and water.

We spent approximately two hours with the Mucubal families, observing their daily routines, photographing, and enjoying an encounter none of us would soon forget.

When it was time to leave, we cheerfully thanked our hosts and continued our journey.

Along the way, Paulo stopped beneath a shady tree for lunch. He brought folding chairs, a table, and a small grill, and soon he was grilling corn on the cob and meat, with funge alongside. Despite living in Angola for years, none of us had developed much enthusiasm for funge, a thick, starchy staple traditionally made from cassava flour. But we were hungry, happy, and increasingly appreciative of our guide, Paulo.

After lunch, we relaxed on our chairs beneath the shade of a baobab tree, enjoying the breeze and the peace of the wilderness. Paulo announced that it was time for his sesta (a little nap), assuring us that we’d be perfectly fine.

Later that afternoon, we started our journey back to Omauha Camp, arriving just before nightfall, which in that part of Angola comes around six or six-thirty in the evening.

That evening, back at Omauha Camp, Paulo prepared dinner and shared many stories about his family, his years in Angola, and life in the bush. He clearly had great affection for Angola and sadness over the devastation of war.

We listened... completely fascinated.

The man we’d feared in the darkness had become a wonderful guide, travel companion, and storyteller. We still chose to sleep together that night, but this time we didn’t barricade the door with tables and chairs.

We simply turned the latch.

Into Iona

The following morning, we loaded our belongings into the Land Cruiser and departed bright and early for Iona National Park, an immense wilderness in southwestern Angola.

At the entrance, a guard in a small hut wrote down Paulo’s vehicle and licence details.

... And then we were inside!

The landscape was unlike the South African bushveld or the open plains of the Serengeti. Golden grasses stretched across the terrain, interrupted by scattered trees, rocky hills, and dusty tracks.

Zebras galloped alongside our Land Cruiser, their hooves kicking up clouds of dust as they ran through the sun-bleached grass against the distant hills... The sight was stunning.

Antelope leaped through the tall grass. Unlike animals in heavily visited safari destinations, these seemed unaccustomed to vehicles. Their reactions were different, and watching them was unforgettable.

We spent several hours exploring, stopping for coffee and cookies and taking in the beautiful scenery.

Angola’s wildlife had been devastated during the war. Yet here, animals were moving freely through the landscape, showing us a glimpse of nature’s resilience.

Eventually, we turned toward Namibe and our flight home.

After the chaos of Luanda, the Namibe airport seemed positively peaceful. We settled our account, thanked Paulo warmly, and said our goodbyes.

“We must do this again,” we told him... And we meant it.

But anyone who has lived the expatriate life knows how easily such promises slip away. Assignments end. Friends scatter across continents. New destinations beckon, and places we intend to revisit become cherished memories instead.

We never made that second journey.

Angola Remains…

… a fascinating country, vast, culturally rich, and blessed with spectacular landscapes. Yet for those dreaming of an overland adventure, to this day it remains remarkably difficult to navigate. Roads have improved, and tourist visa requirements have been relaxed for many nationalities, but accommodation, fuel supplies, and the sheer distances involved can make even a carefully planned journey challenging.

There is a certain irony in worrying about fuel in a country so rich in oil.

Perhaps that’s part of what I remember most about Angola. It was a country I loved, even when it drove me to distraction.

But I still remember the extraordinary Angolan wilderness, the Mucubal nomads who welcomed us, the zebras galloping through golden grass, and the Portuguese gentleman who introduced four adventurous women to a side of Angola we’d never known. Paulo, the gentleman who took such good care of us that, by the end of the trip, we’d almost forgotten our first evening together.

Almost.

After all, it’s not every day that your tour guide steps out to water the flowers and leaves four women quietly planning their own obituaries.

This time, however, I was determined to go beyond wildlife photography. I wanted to learn more about the Rabari people, a traditional pastoral community known for the striking red turbans worn by the men and perhaps discover more about their traditions and way of life.

For generations, the Rabari shepherds have shared Jawai with wild leopards. Their coexistence is truly remarkable because human-wildlife conflict remains a major conservation challenge in India. I was told that the government compensates the herders when a leopard kills one of their livestock, which helps the Rabari continue living alongside these animals.

One of the Rabari men working at SUJÁN happily offered to welcome me into his home, and so, my naturalist/guide arranged a visit so I could photograph his family going about their daily activities, such as making tea, cooking, and making beaded jewelry.

When I arrived at the house, there was an elderly gentleman sitting by the window, under the warm sunshine quietly sipping tea, while looking out the window: he was the patriarch of the family and it was immediately apparent to me that he held an important place in the household.

At the Heart of the Family

The elderly gentleman was very much part of family life. His children and grandchildren gathered around him, including him in their daily activities.

I was particularly moved by the affection they showed him. They leaned close, sat beside him, spoke to him gently, and included him in their world. As the family went about their daily chores, they kept talking to him, and although he rarely replied, it appeared to me that he was taking it all in.

He definitely belonged at the center of it all.

The next day I returned to the same home for a second photography session, and this time, the elderly gentleman recognized me as I stepped over the door’s threshold.

He gently tapped his charpai, a traditional woven cot, motioning for me to sit beside him. I accepted his invitation, and when he offered me his trembling hand, I gently held it in mine.

We couldn’t speak each other’s language, but sitting beside him and holding his hand felt perfectly natural. Neither of us needed to say anything.

As I sat there, I found myself wondering about his life… How much had changed during his lifetime? How many people had come and gone? I wondered about the family he had raised and all the memories he must have accumulated over the years.

The Colors of Life

During my first stay at SUJÁN Jawai, I became familiar with the striking red turbans worn by the Rabari men who work at the lodge. But in this private home, I noticed something different: the elder wore a white turban.

The contrast between the red of the younger men and the subdued white of the elder’s turban caught my attention.

I asked my guide why the elder wore a white turban, and he explained that men wear white turbans when they get older or become widowed, while younger men commonly wear the vivid red turbans.

I found myself thinking of those colors as chapters of a life: youth, responsibility, experience, and the inevitable passage of time.

Yet what struck me most was not what the elderly man wore, but how his family regarded him. In that household, age had not rendered him invisible. If anything, it seemed to have deepened his place within the family.

How We View Aging

No culture has a monopoly on caring for its elders with love. In some societies, residential care for older people is common, while in others, several generations traditionally live together, with elderly family members remaining part of daily family life.

In this Rabari household, I witnessed something that made me reflect on the place we give our elders within the family. I wondered whether we sometimes overlook the memories, experiences, knowledge, and wisdom of older generations.

Without the old, there is no young…

I had come to Jawai for the leopards, but I left with more than photographs.

I carry the memory of an elderly gentleman who welcomed me into his home with the simple gesture of an outstretched hand.

His hand trembled with age, but he remained surrounded by the love and affection of his family.

I should probably begin by saying that I am an extremely well-seasoned international traveler. I have flown all over the world, often on my own, and this had never happened to me before.

But I was running a little late, I wasn't paying enough attention to my surroundings, and I was excited to get to Germany before continuing on to South Africa, where adventure awaited.

As it turned out, adventure wasn't willing to wait that long... a funny thing happened on the way to the gate.

I went to the wrong gate.

The one right next door was the correct one.

My Frankfurt flight was leaving from Gate 8. I went to Gate 7. The two gate areas were packed with people, and in my haste, I headed straight for the wrong one.

Now, there's nothing remarkable about going to the wrong gate. People do it every day. They're in a hurry, they're distracted, and they're just not paying attention.

I was all three!

What is slightly more remarkable is that I managed to get on the wrong plane.

When I reached the front of the boarding line, I stood quite confidently in front of the facial-recognition camera, as instructed by the United gate agent.

Buzz. Big X.

The agent looked at me.

“Look over here,” she said, pointing toward the camera.

This time, I took off my glasses.

Maybe that's the problem, I thought.

Again, I looked directly at the camera.

Buzz. Big X.

It wasn't the glasses.

At this point, the UA agent gave up on my face.

“Okay, put your boarding pass here,” she said, pointing to the boarding-pass scanner.

I placed my boarding pass over it.

It scanned.

Apparently, my boarding pass had more credibility than my face.

And she waved me through.

So, after the facial-recognition system had rejected me twice, I picked up my things and walked quite happily down the jet bridge. There I joined the queue waiting to board the aircraft.

The Universe, meanwhile, was still trying to help me.

Almost everyone around me seemed to be speaking Spanish.

In my excitement, I simply filed that under, Well, that's interesting. So many Spanish-speaking people going to Germany.

My brain: Interesting.

My brain: No further questions.

And I continued patiently waiting for my turn to board... the wrong airplane.

When it was my turn, the flight attendant greeted me cheerfully.

“Welcome to United. May I see your boarding pass, please?”

“Yes, of course. Here you are.”

She looked at it.

“5L?”

Then she looked at me.

“We don't have a 5L on this aircraft. Are you going to Querétaro, Mexico?”

“No. I'm going to Frankfurt, Germany.”

“No, ma'am. You need to go back. This is the wrong flight.”

By now, of course, everyone standing behind me had heard the entire exchange.

“You're on the wrong plane!”

“You better get out!”

Thank you. I had gathered that.

So I turned around and began the walk back up the jet bridge, past all those Spanish-speaking passengers I had found so interesting only moments earlier.

Apparently, the Universe had run out of clues.

The United gate agent who had waved me through looked bewildered when she saw me coming back.

“Where are you going? Why are you leaving?”

“I'm on the wrong flight.”

She froze.

Then she turned to the other two agents.

“How did she ever get on this flight?”

A question I thought was entirely reasonable.

Suddenly all three of them were scrambling toward the UA computer.

✈ ✈ ✈

As it turns out, I'm not the only United passenger who has managed to board the wrong airplane.

In August 2025, Víctor Calderón was supposed to fly from Los Angeles to Houston, connecting onward to Managua, Nicaragua. Instead, he boarded a United flight to Tokyo.*

Unlike me, he didn't discover the mistake while the airplane was still sitting at the gate.

He discovered it six hours later.

When I eventually made it to Frankfurt and told my story to a United employee at baggage services, he wasn't particularly surprised. He told me that, in his experience, this happens more than airlines care to admit. He had encountered the problem himself and had argued with United about passengers being allowed through after an automated system had rejected them.

“Agents have to be on the ball.”

Considering that the facial-recognition system had given me a big X twice, I could hardly argue with him.

I happened to be at baggage services because my luggage had managed to have an adventure of its own that day.

But that's another story.

The moral of this story?

If facial recognition rejects you twice, don't assume it's your glasses.

Before you override the machine with a boarding pass, check the gate number and destination.

*Source: Los Angeles Times, “He Was Flying From L.A. to Houston. So How Did He End Up in Tokyo?” February 12, 2026.

Excellent. No hurry.

So I did what any sensible passenger would do. I stopped for a cappuccino and a wonderfully fresh croissant, even taking my time to admire its exceptional flakiness.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my two suitcases were apparently enjoying a joyride around Carousel 2, completely unsupervised.

By the time I cleared passport control and reached baggage claim, the carousel was deserted, except for two lonely suitcases standing off to the side, belonging to other people.

Mine were not there...

There are few sights quite as disheartening as an empty baggage carousel when your own two bags are MIA.

I made my way to Frankfurt Airport baggage services. My German is not very good, and communication was difficult until several staff members pointed enthusiastically toward a young man.

“He speaks the language” (English.)… Well, kind of…

Google Translate became my dearest friend: I spoke a question, he answered in German, and delivered the verdict:

“Your bags are still in Houston.”

Excuse me? Was ist das? (WTF?)… Can't be!

Mental note: I must continue my German lessons.

After considerably more translation and gesticulation, the exasperated baggage services man finally said, “Follow me,” and escorted me to United baggage services.

The United computer apparently agreed with him.

“The bags were never loaded in Houston.”

So we discussed the next flight from Houston.

“Where are you staying?” “Can you return tomorrow to collect the bags?” Absolutely not, I said in my silkiest possible voice. “United left my bags behind in Houston.”

Although privately, I wondered whether I should come back myself because, at this rate, God only knew where they might end up.

Then the information began changing...

One bag might actually be in Frankfurt. The other was nowhere to be found, and another agent began preparing a missing-baggage report.

And then came an alarming new possibility…

Perhaps, a United agent suggested, my bags had been confiscated by the Flughafenpolizei (airport police).

“Do you have anything in there that’s dubious?”

What...? No!

And then I uttered the words that changed everything: “I have a photo of my bags.”

Everyone stopped and looked at me and, almost in chorus:

“Show us.”

I opened my phone and showed them the photo taken in Houston after the baggage tags had been attached.

One of the United women looked at it.

“I saw those bags!”...

So… My bags were not in Houston after all.

They were in Frankfurt but to make matters worse, they had apparently already entered the baggage stream for Johannesburg that evening.

“Wait, wait a second,” I said. “I’m not flying to Johannesburg for two days. Why are my bags going tonight?”

Blank looks...

I enlarged the photo. The airline tags were clearly visible:

FRA... and Frankfurt was their final destination.

There were still approximately ten hours before the Johannesburg flight, so surely someone could rescue them.

United quickly began coordinating with Frankfurt baggage services to find the bags.

The United agent finally said, “We have arranged for the luggage to be brought out to you. Please go sit down and wait.”

And so I waited, and waited… After about an hour, one bag appeared.

I went back to United baggage services: “Where is the second bag?”

Back to the UA computer.

“Please be patient. Sit down and wait. It will come out.” Those were the words the UA agents kept repeating.

By then my imagination was quite active, envisioning the bowels of Frankfurt Airport: tunnels, ramps, conveyor belts and mysterious underground baggage mazes, with my little black suitcases with their red piping hurtling helplessly through them and screaming:

“Mama, come rescue us! It’s dark and scary in here!”

I sent a condensed version of the increasingly ridiculous proceedings to someone dear in Stuttgart, including the possibility that my innocent suitcases had fallen into the hands of the Flughafenpolizei.

His response:

“Nice. I hope the luggage bail is affordable.”

Eventually, the second bag materialized, and it was then that I noticed the handwritten tags attached to them.

“I don’t remember those being put on in Houston,” I said to the United agent.

“Oh no,” she replied. “I did it.”

She was the person who had removed my bags from the carousel and prepared them for transfer to Johannesburg.

Why two suitcases clearly tagged FRA had been pulled from Frankfurt baggage claim and redirected toward a flight I wasn’t taking for another two days remains one of aviation’s little mysteries.

But my babies were back.

And, presumably, their luggage bail had been paid.

🧳 🧳 🧳

The useful part of this otherwise absurdly absurd and ridiculous story: photograph every checked bag after the airline baggage tag has been attached. Make sure the photograph is sharp enough to enlarge and read the destination and baggage tag number.

And when the app tells you your carousel hasn’t been announced yet? Perhaps it’s good practice to make your way to baggage claim and wait for the announcement before admiring that croissant.

Most importantly, when the first answer doesn’t make sense, keep asking, keep insisting.

According to the United computer, my bags were in Houston. Then the story changed. They were in Frankfurt, although no one yet knew whether the Flughafenpolizei had confiscated them.

According to my photo, Frankfurt was exactly where they should have ended up.

The final destination on the baggage tag wins.

Unless, of course, a human error is made.

This afternoon was no different, and I was expecting to take a few photographs, on a beautiful afternoon.

Instead, I walked into a story already taking place.

The Römerberg was filled with people, but something felt different. Something quieter, more somber, was taking place. People were moving slowly and thoughtfully around long black memorial walls covered with photographs, names, ages and white roses.

At first, I didn't understand what I was seeing. I wondered whether it might be connected with human trafficking.

So I approached a woman wearing a Trauerwache Deutschland badge and asked for some information. Luckily, she spoke English.

“What is this about?” I asked. “Is it about human trafficking?”

“No,” she said, and began to explain.

This was Trauerwache Deutschland, or Germany Mourning Vigil, a public memorial gathering followed by a mourning march. According to the organization, it commemorates people killed in acts of violence since 2015, particularly terrorist attacks and serious violent crimes involving asylum seekers or refugees. The organization says it is now in contact with approximately 1,000 families who have lost children or other relatives.

Then she said something that stayed with me. She told me that many Germans are reluctant to speak openly about these crimes when they involve certain refugees and asylum seekers.

She put a finger to her lips. “Shh. Most Germans don't want to say anything.”

Then she touched her chest.

“But I don't forget. And I speak up.”

She explained that this was what the vigil was about: no more silence, and no forgetting.

I walked along the memorial walls. A woman, 48. A man, 39. A young woman, 28. Face after face. Name after name.

What struck me was how extraordinarily respectful it was. Römerberg is normally filled with tourists, café tables, conversation and people having a drink. Today, people walked quietly. They stopped. They read. They looked at the photographs.

The organization's words are Gegen das Vergessen: Against Forgetting. Its stated purpose is to give victims a face and a voice and to create a place for relatives, survivors and emergency personnel to remember.

I found it deeply moving.

As the gathering began to leave the Römerberg, I accidentally found myself walking with them on their way out of the square.

It was a solemn procession. Everybody walked quietly and respectfully, almost like ghosts.

It was very sad.

In memoriam.

Sometimes websites do not give you a complete picture of what to expect. One of the things that had attracted me to Sir Prague was precisely its combination of history and contemporary luxury. The hotel occupies a beautifully restored neo-Renaissance building dating from 1884, and rather than stripping away its past, the renovation seems to have embraced it.

That became apparent almost immediately, from the moment we walked in.

Beautiful old woodwork, elegant staircases and architectural details have been preserved, but they sit comfortably alongside very cool contemporary furniture, dramatic lighting and artwork by Czech artists. The designers have also incorporated references to Czech Cubism throughout the hotel, and somehow it all works.

There are cozy little corners everywhere. I particularly loved the library, with its dark wood, soft lighting and comfortable seating, but the secluded courtyard may have been my favorite public space of all. It is not a garden per se, but it is adorned with large pots containing decorative trees and the tiniest white lights. It is beautifully cozy and peaceful considering that you are in the middle of Prague.

Our arrival, however, involved a little room adventure.

I had originally reserved the Sir Residence, a two-bedroom “suite.” From the description on the website, I understood that the bedrooms would share some sort of common living area, more like a traditional two-bedroom suite… In reality, they are two separate hotel rooms connected by a shared small private hallway.

That configuration would probably work very well for a family or friends traveling together, but it was not what I had envisioned, and it was not going to work for us. I also think the website’s description could be a little clearer about the actual layout.

After some discussion at reception, the manager offered us a Sir Corner River View room at the same rate, and it turned out to be exactly the right decision.

The room was beautifully decorated and extremely comfortable, with excellent bedding, a sitting area, and plenty of natural light and views toward the Vltava River. The Nespresso machine was a particularly welcome amenity, and the minibar was very well stocked, although one look at the price list reminded us of a useful rule of travel: sometimes it is best simply to admire the minibar from a distance!

I also particularly liked the bathroom, with its distinctive Czech tiles, oversized rain shower and luxurious ZENology bath products, which were new to me, but absolutely divine!

The rooms are thoughtfully designed, although they do tend to run on the compact side. Even the larger accommodation we initially saw felt smaller than I had expected, so anyone for whom generous room size is particularly important would be wise to check the dimensions carefully when booking.

The Sir Corner River View suite is listed as 29–33 m², which converts to roughly 312–355 square feet. By the standards of some countries, that is still compact, for a suite.

Our stay included complimentary Wi-Fi, bottled water available upon request and a wonderful breakfast. Breakfast offered the best of both worlds: a small continental buffet along with an à la carte menu. I much prefer that arrangement to the enormous hotel buffets where breakfast can begin to feel like an expedition rather than a meal.

Another thing I appreciated was the service. The staff were warm and helpful but also extremely discreet. Housekeeping seemed almost invisible. Rooms were simply taken care of without any sense of staff constantly appearing in corridors or interrupting the rhythm of the stay.

And then there is Seven North, the lively restaurant within the hotel, with its open kitchen and Mediterranean-inspired menu. We had one particularly memorable dinner there, which, however, may be a story for another day.

The location is another considerable advantage: Sir Prague sits close to the Vltava River, and we found Prague remarkably easy to explore on foot from the hotel. Charles Bridge and Old Town Square are both within walking distance. Even getting to and from Václav Havel Airport is straightforward, with a relatively short ride by Uber.

Would I stay at Sir Prague again?

Absolutely.

The historic building, contemporary Czech design, lovely courtyard, discreet service and excellent location gave the hotel something increasingly difficult to find: a real sense of place.

You could wake up in many luxury hotels and, for a moment, have no idea where in the world you were... but not at Sir Prague.

You wake up in Prague!

I have flown by helicopter many times in Kenya, with several different operators, and Kenya has become deeply woven into my life. A helicopter accident there would have caught my attention under any circumstances.

Then I saw the name Lady Lori Helicopters… And my heart sank because I immediately recognized the registration of the aircraft: 5Y-GYM.

I knew that helicopter… I had been a frequent passenger with Lady Lori, and that particular helicopter had taken me on several trips, to some of the most extraordinary landscapes in Kenya: the other worldly terrain of the Suguta Valley and to Lake Turkana, Lake Naivasha, and Mt Longonot. We flew into Samburu, and over vast stretches of country that seem almost untouched from the air. There were repeated visits to Mt Ololokwe itself.

Places most of us would consider extraordinary.

And they were extraordinary… I knew that even then. I was excited every time those rotor blades began to turn, every time the earth dropped away beneath us, every time we landed somewhere that seemed almost impossible to reach by any other means.

But something happens when the extraordinary becomes repetitive.

It begins to feel ordinary.

Looking through my photographs now, I realize that I took many of those experiences for granted. Not because I didn’t appreciate them or enjoy them… I certainly did. But because there was always another flight, another mountain, another remote landing, and another astonishing landscape waiting the following day.

What would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for many people had, somehow, become part of the rhythm of my travels in Kenya.

I look at my photographs differently now… There is 5Y-GYM sitting on a mountaintop… there she is against the immense landscapes of northern Kenya, and there I am beside her on different days, in different places, smiling, excited, but completely unaware that a couple of years later I would return to these photographs for a very different reason.

On August 19, 2026, 5Y-GYM, an Airbus EC130 operated by Lady Lori Helicopters crashed near Mount Ololokwe in Samburu County. Pilot Josh Outram and all six passengers aboard were killed. The cause of the accident remains under investigation.

I never flew with Josh, and my flights with Lady Lori were with another pilot, Ian M.

But after the accident, I began reading about the man who had been flying that morning. Josh was a fourth-generation Kenyan and an experienced commercial and conservation pilot who had spent more than fifteen years flying in some of East Africa’s most demanding environments. Those who knew him spoke of his skill, professionalism, calmness and commitment to conservation.

Perhaps this is why I have found myself thinking about something much larger than an aircraft accident.

We do this with so much in life.

A beautiful view outside our window becomes the view we hardly notice. A journey we once dreamed about becomes another trip. A person who means something to us becomes someone we assume will be there tomorrow. Even experiences that once made our hearts beat faster can become familiar simply because we are fortunate enough to experience them more than once.

Familiarity can subtly steal our sense of wonder… And sometimes it takes loss to give it back.

There will always be practical consequences when an aircraft is lost, particularly for a highly regarded aviation operation. But an aircraft can ultimately be replaced, but seven human lives cannot.

When I look at my Lady Lori photographs now, I still see adventure, beauty and some of the happiest days I have spent in Kenya.

But I see something else too… I see how quickly everything can change.

And I am reminded to notice the remarkable while it is happening. To appreciate the people who make those moments possible. To stop assuming that because something happened yesterday, there will automatically be another tomorrow.

Because sometimes there is no next flight.

In memory of Josh Outram and the six passengers who lost their lives with him at Mount Ololokwe, and with deepest sympathy to their families and to everyone at Lady Lori Helicopters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This time, my niece Patricia and I took a different route. It was a very hot day, and the Right Bank offered the welcome prospect of shade. We eventually found ourselves along the Quai de la Mégisserie, with the green boxes appearing one after another beside the Seine.

The familiar green boxes are still there, but somehow the scene feels different from years past.

Many of the boxes are closed, while others are open but contain surprisingly few books. There are prints, paintings, postcards, magnets and, rather unexpectedly, a Parisian Snoopy!

I began to wonder: Where have all the booksellers gone?

The bouquinistes are one of those Parisian sights I have always loved. For me, walking along the Seine, stopping to browse their books, prints, posters and assorted treasures, has always been part of being in Paris. Yet over the years, I have noticed fewer open stalls and more shuttered boxes.

The irony is that the bouquinistes have fought for their survival almost from the beginning.

Their predecessors began appearing along the Seine as early as the 16th century, selling books, pamphlets and printed material from baskets and temporary stalls. Authorities did not always appreciate them. At various times, they were restricted, regulated and even prohibited, especially when the material they sold made those in power uncomfortable.

By the 19th century, however, they had become part of the fabric of Paris. In 1891, they were permitted to leave their merchandise on the quays overnight, giving us the permanent green boxes we recognize today.

Even then, survival was hardly guaranteed. Baron Haussmann wanted them removed during his transformation of Paris, but they remained. More than a century later, preparations for the 2024 Olympics again threatened hundreds of boxes with temporary removal for security reasons...

In true French fashion, the bouquinistes protested… and they won.

Today, the threat is different. No one needs to ban them now. Ironically, economics may accomplish what official attempts could not. People still read, but the way we buy books has changed. Online sellers make almost any title searchable from home, while large secondhand bookstores can offer thousands of books at astonishingly low prices.

Patricia and I discovered that ourselves in a secondhand bookstore in Paris. She came away with old editions of Jules Verne and Balzac for about 50 cents each… An amazing deal!

We also stopped to look through the books at the bouquinistes. French books are familiar territory for me, as I have been reading in French since I was young, and as a teenager, I began collecting hardcover French editions of Astérix and Tintin, two beloved French-language comic series. Many of those books are still on my shelves today. Yet, looking at similar editions along the Seine all these decades later, I was surprised by how modest some of the prices remained. Age alone, apparently, does not make a book valuable.

Then there are the tourists. Many admire the old French books but cannot actually read them. A print of Notre-Dame, a postcard, a small painting or, apparently, a Parisian Snoopy is considerably more desirable and easier to sell.

And perhaps that explains why so many of those green boxes now offer far more than books.

Walking along the Quai de la Mégisserie, I photographed the transition almost without realizing it. In my photographs, one stand is packed with books and old publications; another mixes books with prints and paintings; another has almost entirely given way to tourist merchandise.

The famous green boxes have not disappeared...

But a closed box is not a bookseller.

And Paris would somehow be a little less Paris without them.

If you, my gentle reader, have visited Paris, have you noticed the bouquinistes along the Seine? Do you stop to browse their wares? And have you ever found yourself buying something from one of those green boxes that you simply had to take home?

In June 2019, barely two months after the devastating fire, I was back in Paris with my sisters-in-law. For one of them, it was her first visit to the city, and naturally Notre-Dame would have been part of it.

The world had seen the images of the fire, but nothing prepared me to see it in person. My beloved Notre-Dame was severely damaged.

We walked the perimeter as close as we were allowed, looking at the cathedral from various angles and always from a distance; it was a poignant walk. We stood there looking at a place I had known and loved for so many years, now inaccessible and so visibly damaged… it pulled at my heart.

I returned to Paris during the years of restoration, but Notre-Dame remained closed. Then, in July 2026, while visiting family in Paris, with the cathedral finally open again, I had to go back.

And what a difference!

The Notre-Dame I remembered had always been rather dark inside. Today, the cathedral seems almost luminous. Years of accumulated soot, dust and grime have been removed from the stone, and details that once disappeared into the shadows, or that I didn’t even know were there, are suddenly visible.

The walls are brighter, the small chapels more defined, and the entire interior seems filled with light. The newly cleaned stone certainly accounts for much of the brightness, but a new LED lighting system also enhances the cathedral’s lighter interior. The transformation is striking… and, it is still unmistakably Notre-Dame, yet somehow it feels newly revealed.

Restoration work continues in several of the side chapels, so not every part of the interior is completely accessible. Even so, the splendor of the cathedral is impossible to miss.

So, what exactly was restored?*

Among the major elements restored or rebuilt after the fire:

The spire, which collapsed during the fire, was reconstructed to its historic design.

The oak roof framework over the nave, choir and transept was rebuilt using traditional carpentry methods.

The roof was reconstructed over the new timber framework.

The damaged stone vaults were repaired and, where necessary, rebuilt.

The north belfry was restored after suffering damage in the fire.

The Grand Organ, which survived, was dismantled, cleaned, restored and retuned.

The cathedral interior, including its stonework, chapels, paintings, sculptures and decorative elements, underwent extensive cleaning and conservation.

One question I am frequently asked is whether investigators ever determined what caused the fire. Surprisingly, the answer is still unknown. Investigators believe the fire was most likely accidental, but no definitive cause has yet been established.

Knowing that the cathedral has been restored in some sections and rebuilt in others, nothing quite prepares you for what it feels like to walk inside Notre-Dame again.

I am not a practicing Catholic, yet walking into this ancient cathedral evokes something in me that is difficult to describe. Perhaps it is the centuries of history, perhaps its beauty, or perhaps the awareness of everything that has taken place within those walls over the centuries. Whatever it is, Notre-Dame has never felt to me like simply another Paris landmark.

There was one place inside the cathedral, in particular, that drew me in…

As we followed the designated flow of visitors through the cathedral, I caught a glimpse, from several feet away, of an enormous golden halo… I didn’t immediately know what I was looking at, but I found myself gravitating toward it.

As I drew nearer, I learned that it was a chapel where the Crown of Thorns is housed in a striking new reliquary designed by Sylvain Dubuisson for Notre-Dame’s reopening. Its enormous golden circle is formed by concentric rings of glass elements, creating an extraordinary halo effect around the central cross. It is modern, luminous, and almost impossible to describe adequately in words. For me, it was simply impossible to walk by.

At first, I stood behind the low chain barrier that separates the chapel from the visitor route. I could see the reliquary perfectly well from there and photograph it, but somehow that wasn’t enough. I wanted to go inside, sit before it, and more fully absorb the powerful essence that had drawn me toward it.

A gentleman stood at the chapel’s entrance and explained that the space was reserved for those wishing to pray. I had not gone there intending to pray… I simply wanted to sit quietly and take in what was before me. But once seated, in front of the Crown of Thorns, something shifted… My heart was tender that day, and before long, observation gave way to introspection, and introspection to prayer.

I sat there for some time with thoughts, hopes and unanswered questions of my own. Then, quite unexpectedly, the tears came… It was an intensely spiritual experience.

When I finally left the chapel, I carried with me something I had not expected to find there: a renewed sense of hope.

Photography is not permitted once inside the prayer chapel, although the reliquary can easily be photographed from the visitors’ route outside the low chain barrier.

Getting inside Notre-Dame

Visiting Notre-Dame is also much easier today than it used to be. Free online reservations are now available, allowing you to schedule your visit rather than simply arriving and joining what, in years past, could be an extraordinarily long queue.

There are other options, and I chose a paid timed-entry service that included a podcast.

For our cathedral visit, we arrived shortly before our scheduled entry time. We showed our QR codes at the first checkpoint and were waved through toward a second podium. We showed them again and walked straight through, bypassing the regular lines. Within minutes, we were inside.

For me, it was money well spent. Paris was hot, and I had no desire to spend another twenty or thirty minutes standing outside in the heat when I didn’t have to. Others may prefer the free reservation, and that’s the beauty of the system today: you have options.

In fact, we went back to Notre-Dame the following day and used the paid service again. I wanted to visit the Crown of Thorns chapel once more, and once again, it did not disappoint.

There was another reason for our return. I had not read our original booking instructions carefully enough and didn’t realize that our separate tower reservation was for 10:20. We entered the cathedral first, took our time enjoying it, and completely missed our allotted tower time and its grace period.

There was no way we could leave Paris without seeing the newly reopened towers. Booking again was easy, so we came back the following day.

And the towers? Those deserve a story of their own.

As for Notre-Dame itself, I heartily recommend a visit, even if you have been there before. In fact, especially if you have been there before… the restored cathedral is a revelation. But fear not, it is still unmistakably the Notre-Dame we have all loved for so many years.

I don’t think you will be disappointed.

*Source: Rebâtir Notre-Dame de Paris, the public body responsible for the cathedral’s reconstruction and restoration.

In the leafy Nairobi suburb of Karen, not far from the former home of Karen Blixen, stands one of Kenya’s most unusual and enchanting hotels, the Giraffe Manor.

You may remember Karen Blixen as the Danish author of Out of Africa, the memoir that inspired the beautiful film of the same name, with its sweeping images of Kenya’s vast, seemingly endless savanna.

Of course, the Giraffe Manor predates the film by more than fifty years. It was built in 1932 as a private residence and modeled after a Scottish hunting lodge, and the ivy-covered manor originally had nothing to do with giraffes.

However, that changed in the 1970s after Jock and Betty Leslie-Melville purchased the property. They learned that giraffes in the area were losing their natural habitat and decided to take in an orphaned young giraffe named Daisy, who was eventually joined by another young giraffe, Marlon. What began with one rescued animal grew into a much larger conservation effort, well known to this day for the conservation of endangered Nubian giraffes, formerly known as Rothschild’s giraffes.

Over time, the private manor became both a sanctuary and a hotel. Word spread far and wide that the giraffes were very much part of the household and were happy to interact with guests.

Our first giraffe encounter began remarkably early, at the break of dawn, before anyone has properly dressed for the day. The giraffes emerge from the surrounding landscape and make their way toward the manor, apparently knowing exactly which windows to visit. In the bedrooms that are accessible to the giraffes, the staff have already left small buckets filled with pellets beside the windows.

One by one, the guests appear at the large bedroom windows facing the great lawn, wrapped in the hotel’s white, fluffy bathrobes (gowns). They open the windows and find themselves almost face-to-face with a visiting giraffe, waiting patiently, or perhaps not so patiently, for a nibble.

When you think about it, it is an amusing sight to see these giants poking their heads through a window while sleepy guests in white robes lean out from the upper floor, feeding the giraffes by hand. Staff members and companions take photographs from inside the bedroom or from the lawn below.

The giraffes seem remarkably committed to the routine, arriving right on schedule every day for their favorite treat, a grass pellet that looks suspiciously like an oversized dog kibble. Once they have made their rounds at the bedroom windows, the giraffes meander toward the deck and linger around the manor, waiting for everyone to come to the dining room.

By breakfast time, the guests have exchanged their bathrobes for proper clothes and are ready for the second part of the morning ritual: breakfast with the giraffes.

The giraffes seem to sense the movement in the dining room… the staff open the tall windows, and the giraffes approach slowly and curiously, poking their long necks inside in search of guests holding those delicious pellets.

Guests feed them by hand, pose for photographs and get remarkably close to these magnificent animals. Those lucky enough to encounter a particularly docile giraffe may even be allowed to touch one, or sometimes kiss one, as I did.

I kissed a giraffe. Yes, I did!

For about half an hour, the dining room belongs almost entirely to the giraffes... it is actually a very funny sight. There is lots of laughter, plenty of oohs and aahs from the children, and an atmosphere of complete delight.

It is an utterly, ridiculously charming experience.

After the guests have had their fill of feeding the giraffes, posing for photographs and enjoying these goofy, long-limbed creatures, the tall dining-room windows are finally closed; otherwise, I suspect the giraffes would make it impossible for anyone to eat breakfast should the windows be left ajar.

The tables are then properly set, and breakfast begins.

In the afternoon, hotel guests enjoy afternoon tea, which offers another opportunity to interact with the giraffes. This time, the giraffes stand on the lawn behind a ridiculously low fence, perhaps twenty-four inches high, which they could easily step over it, and, yet somehow, they don’t. They seem to understand that it is their boundary and remain politely behind it.

Guests can approach the giraffes, feed them and, depending on the giraffe, pet them. These are still very large wild animals with distinct personalities...and then there is Kelly, the dominant female, famous for head-butting anyone who becomes a little too relaxed around her.

I believe I met Kelly personally. In one of my short videos, I am feeding a giraffe when suddenly I burst out laughing.

“Oh my gosh, she butted me. She actually butted me.”

The afternoon encounter is also quite brief, but the magic lies partly in that brevity. The giraffes arrive at the lawn, accept their treats and pose for photographs. Then, as if on cue, they seem to know when the treats are finished and meander back into the forest.

Reservations at Giraffe Manor often require eighteen to twenty-four months of advance planning, which may sound excessive for an experience that lasts only a short time. Yet the experience is not really just about those few minutes of feeding the giraffes. It is about waking up in an old manor house and seeing a giraffe outside your window… it’s quite special, especially, if you’re lucky to get a front-facing bedroom. So not every guest gets to feed the giraffes from an upstairs bedroom… these are the highly coveted rooms.

The magic is also about seeing these lanky creatures wandering across the grounds at dawn, and sitting in the dining room before breakfast as a giraffe’s head suddenly pokes through an open window.

For many travelers, Giraffe Manor is the beginning of a Kenyan safari, a memorable first stop in Nairobi before they continue into the bush. Others save it for the end of their journey. It has become a bucket-list destination for safari travelers, wildlife photographers and, inevitably, many social-media influencers.

Giraffe Manor is part of The Safari Collection, which also operates a number of safari camps and lodges in Kenya. Reservations can be made through the official Giraffe Manor website.

I stayed for two nights, giving me time to enjoy the manor at a more leisurely pace and also visit another remarkable Nairobi conservation project involving some very cute baby elephants… a story deserving an article of its own.

Staying for two nights allowed me to see the giraffes several times in different settings, take many photographs and carry away many wonderful memories.

Giraffe Manor is truly unforgettable, as are those Nubian giraffes.

The drive took only about twenty-five minutes, yet it felt as though I had left the city much farther behind. Frankfurt’s modern skyline gradually gave way to leafy roads, hillside homes, and the quieter rhythm of a small German town.

As I wandered through the cobblestone streets, past historic half-timbered houses, flower-filled windows, and little storefronts, the sky suddenly turned ominous and the wind began to pick up. The air changed almost instantly. Leaves began swirling along the pavement, café umbrellas trembled, and the warm afternoon light disappeared beneath a heavy gray sky.

I looked up and thought, “Oh my goodness... it’s going to rain, and it’s going to come down hard!”

Within minutes of having that thought, big, fat raindrops began to fall. Of course, I had no umbrella, and I had absolutely no intention of getting soaked, so I made an executive decision to dash across the street to a conveniently located restaurant called Pizzeria Toscana.

I entered through the patio, where they gave me a table beneath one of the large umbrellas. Feeling rather pleased with my narrow escape, I ordered an Italian tomato and tuna salad, insalata di pomodori e tonno, along with a glass of Prosecco.

My food arrived, and I had barely begun eating when the wind became much more ambitious and the rain started coming down in buckets. Even beneath the umbrellas, the rain was blowing sideways into the patio and the tables were getting wet. The staff politely asked us to move inside.

The restaurant was warm and inviting, with the comforting sounds of conversation, clinking glasses, and activity coming from the kitchen. I settled into my new table, watched the storm rage outside, and felt rather lucky to have found such a pleasant refuge.

Then came the unexpected bonus...

Somewhere in the kitchen, a beautiful pinsa topped with prosciutto, arugula, and Parmesan had been prepared by mistake. They placed it on my table and said, “Please, it’s on the house.”

How serendipitous is that?

The salad was delicious, the Prosecco was absolutely divine, and the complimentary pinsa was scrumptious, although there was no way I could have eaten the whole thing by myself. What began as a frantic escape from the rain turned into one of those unexpectedly perfect late afternoons.

Within an hour, the storm had passed, the sun briefly returned, and all was well again in Kronberg. The cobblestones glistened, the air felt cooler and fresher, and I continued my tour of this hilly, gorgeous little town.

After such a delightful afternoon, I called an Uber back to Frankfurt. As I left Kronberg behind, I found myself thinking how blessed Germany is with these storybook towns, close enough to its great cities to offer every modern convenience, yet far enough removed to feel like another world. They allow one to retreat briefly into a fairy tale without ever having to surrender the conveniences and possibilities of city life.

What might have been an ordinary afternoon in Germany became a wonderfully serendipitous little adventure in a storybook town called Kronberg im Taunus, nestled among the Taunus hills...

I highly recommend a visit

This past Saturday, I had a free afternoon and evening in Frankfurt before flying to the U.S. the following day. Rather than spend it at the airport hotel, I called an Uber and ventured out to Kronberg im Taunus, an enchanting little town tucked into the Taunus hills northwest of Frankfurt… it had been recommended by a friend.

The drive took only about twenty-five minutes, yet it felt as though I had left the city much farther behind. Frankfurt’s modern skyline gradually gave way to leafy roads, hillside homes, and the quieter rhythm of a small German town.

As I wandered through the cobblestone streets, past historic half-timbered houses, flower-filled windows, and little storefronts, the sky suddenly turned ominous and the wind began to pick up. The air changed almost instantly. Leaves began swirling along the pavement, café umbrellas trembled, and the warm afternoon light disappeared beneath a heavy gray sky.

I looked up and thought, “Oh my goodness... it’s going to rain, and it’s going to come down hard!”

Within minutes of having that thought, big, fat raindrops began to fall. Of course, I had no umbrella, and I had absolutely no intention of getting soaked, so I made an executive decision to dash across the street to a conveniently located restaurant called Pizzeria Toscana.

I entered through the patio, where they gave me a table beneath one of the large umbrellas. Feeling rather pleased with my narrow escape, I ordered an Italian tomato and tuna salad, insalata di pomodori e tonno, along with a glass of Prosecco.

My food arrived, and I had barely begun eating when the wind became much more ambitious and the rain started coming down in buckets. Even beneath the umbrellas, the rain was blowing sideways into the patio and the tables were getting wet. The staff politely asked us to move inside.

The restaurant was warm and inviting, with the comforting sounds of conversation, clinking glasses, and activity coming from the kitchen. I settled into my new table, watched the storm rage outside, and felt rather lucky to have found such a pleasant refuge.

Then came the unexpected bonus...

Somewhere in the kitchen, a beautiful pinsa topped with prosciutto, arugula, and Parmesan had been prepared by mistake. They placed it on my table and said, “Please, it’s on the house.”

How serendipitous is that?

The salad was delicious, the Prosecco was absolutely divine, and the complimentary pinsa was scrumptious, although there was no way I could have eaten the whole thing by myself. What began as a frantic escape from the rain turned into one of those unexpectedly perfect late afternoons.

Within an hour, the storm had passed, the sun briefly returned, and all was well again in Kronberg. The cobblestones glistened, the air felt cooler and fresher, and I continued my tour of this hilly, gorgeous little town.

After such a delightful afternoon, I called an Uber back to Frankfurt. As I left Kronberg behind, I found myself thinking how blessed Germany is with these storybook towns, close enough to its great cities to offer every modern convenience, yet far enough removed to feel like another world. They allow one to retreat briefly into a fairy tale without ever having to surrender the conveniences and possibilities of city life.

What might have been an ordinary afternoon in Germany became a wonderfully serendipitous little adventure in a storybook town called Kronberg im Taunus, nestled among the Taunus hills...

I highly recommend a visit

!

The funniest part?

The impala came tumbling down with them!

Once the commotion had subsided and the lioness had moved on, the Plaque Rock Female calmly returned, retrieved what remained of the carcass, and hoisted it back into the tree.

Sometimes the smallest predator wins.

Author’s Note: Here’s the video of this unforgettable encounter in my Notes. It captures the confrontation in all its noisy, chaotic glory.

Epilogue

The Plaque Rock Female was reported to have been killed by a pride of lions about a year later.

R.I.P. beautiful Plaque Rock

You were an amazing mother, a remarkable leopardess, and one of the most unforgettable leopards I have ever had the privilege of photographing

.

Either way, I've always preferred to face the music, and say it like it is, however unpleasant it may be.

I like to see things as they are.

Some people are uncomfortable with clarity, others welcome it. As for me, I've always told people the same thing:

Tell me the truth.

Tell me if you've changed your mind.

Tell me if I've disappointed you.

Tell me you're confused.

Tell me something... just say something!

The truth is, I cannot read minds, despite being intuitive and perceptive. I still hate the fact that I cannot know what another person is thinking unless they tell me... I don't have a crystal ball.

I can observe, infer, and sense that something is off, but I cannot read minds... what I can do is work with the truth, even when it hurts.

What I struggle with is silence. More specifically, I do not speak the language of silence fluently. In fact, I'm rather deficient in it.

Over the years, I've noticed that people seem to divide into two camps: those who move toward difficult conversations and those who retreat from them.

The first group may not enjoy uncomfortable discussions, but they have them anyway because clarity matters. I fall into that group. I understand that difficult conversations are often the price of honest relationships.

The second group withdraws, hoping that time, distance, or silence will accomplish what words cannot.

Neither approach is painless, but they create very different experiences for the people involved. When words disappear, the person left behind is often left with questions:

What happened?

What changed?

Did I say something wrong?

Did I offend you?

Was there a moment when everything shifted and I wasn't even aware of it?

The mind dislikes uncertainty, and I can certainly attest to that. In the absence of information, it begins to manufacture stories: conversations are replayed, messages are revisited, and memories are examined for clues. Tiny details suddenly take on enormous significance as we try to decipher what happened. Most of those stories have very little to do with the truth. They're simply our minds trying to make sense of a void, and many people believe silence is kinder than the truth.

I disagree.

The truth may disappoint us; it may hurt, and it may force us to accept something we wish were different... but the truth gives us something solid to stand on. Silence gives us absolutely nothing at all:

No explanation,

No clarity,

No place to begin... only questions.

And perhaps that's why I've always preferred difficult words to comfortable silence.

Speak to me.

I'm not fluent in silence

My preference, if given the choice, is to travel with a special someone, a dear friend, or someone whose company I genuinely enjoy. Sharing a beautiful destination with someone you care about can be a wonderful experience.

But when that is not possible, I do not stay home. Life is too short, and the world is too interesting, to postpone an adventure while waiting for schedules, circumstances, or stars to align. I make the plans, buy the ticket, pack my bags, and go.

If I join a group tour through India, France, or South Africa, for example, I may have arrived alone, but I am not truly traveling independently. My days are still dictated by someone else's itinerary. I am eating with the same people, boarding the same vehicles, and following the same schedule. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, but it is simply not my preferred way to travel.

Independent travel offers something different. It is choosing where to go, where to stay, when to eat, and how long to linger. I can wake up each morning and realize the day belongs entirely to me. However, independent travel does not mean I always book every detail myself.

Some destinations are easy to arrange on your own. Others, particularly in parts of Africa, are often better coordinated through an experienced travel specialist. To me, that does not diminish the experience of independent travel. If anything, it enhances it.

Independent travel is not defined by who books the reservations. It is defined by who makes the decisions. The destinations, the pace, the experiences, and the priorities are still mine. Someone else may help coordinate the details, but the journey remains my own.

Independent travel requires a certain amount of courage and, yes, a little chutzpah. As a lifelong New Yorker, I sometimes joke that I have eyes in the back of my head. When I travel independently, I stay aware of my surroundings, trust my instincts, and pay attention. I also do my homework. As a woman traveling on her own, I am discerning about where I go and where I do not go. I research destinations carefully and gravitate toward places that are known to be welcoming and respectful of women traveling independently.

Once I have done my research, however, there comes a moment when preparation gives way to adventure. The ticket is booked, the bags are packed, and, like a good Catholic, I make the sign of the cross and off I go!

What I did not expect was that independent travel would teach me so much about human connection.

Several years ago, I was flying from Milan to Rome when I found myself seated next to a woman returning home to Chile.

Patricia was terrified of flying. The fear on her face was unmistakable.

As we waited for takeoff, she ordered a neat whiskey and, while she sipped her drink, I began telling her stories from my travels and my time in the African bush. We talked about wildlife, safaris, and some of the remarkable things I had witnessed over the years.

We took off, and she didn't even notice it.

She became completely absorbed in the stories, and before either of us realized it, we were descending into Rome.

The flight she had dreaded was over.

Nearly ten years later, we are still in touch. She affectionately calls me "mi amiga del aire" (my friend from the air). She insists that I saved her from a full-blown panic attack that day.

Perhaps she exaggerates. Perhaps she doesn't.

What I do know is that had I been traveling with a companion, I might never have spoken to her.

Over the years, there have been others.

The traveler who discovered upon landing that nobody was there to meet her. She had no local phone, no way to contact anyone, and no idea how she was going to get home. All she had was an address.

In the end, we shared a taxi, and I paid the fare.

There have been conversations in airport lounges, chance encounters in cafés, and fleeting exchanges that somehow grew into lasting friendships.

After visiting more than 60 countries, I have learned that some of my greatest rewards of travel are not found in famous landmarks or guidebooks.

They are found in people.

One of the great ironies of independent travel is that although you set out alone, you are often more open to the people around you.

Had I been traveling with a companion on that flight to Rome, I might never have met my Chilean friend.

Had I been focused only on my own plans, I might never have shared a taxi with a stranded traveler or struck up conversations that grew into lasting friendships.

Independent travel has taught me self-reliance, but it has also taught me that we rarely move through the world entirely on our own.

And perhaps that is the greatest surprise of all.

The more independently I travel, the more connected I feel to the people I meet along the way.

The lion on the road at sunrise, the leopard draped across a tree feeding on its kill, or the great elephant bull charging through clouds of dust.

There is also the adrenaline of the chase and, of course, the checklist of sightings.

And in the beginning, perhaps that is exactly what safari is for most travelers.

You wake before dawn with anticipation humming inside you. Once everyone settles into the vehicle, a kind of quiet attentiveness takes over. The guide and tracker begin driving through the bush. Every turn in the road carries possibility.

We search.

We hope.

We scan the bush for movement, for magic, for the extraordinary.

But something shifts.

The safari we find is often quieter than the one we first imagined.

It becomes less about chasing animals and more about learning how to simply be present in the wilderness itself.

I realized this again yesterday morning, my final morning at Singita Ebony Lodge.

My safari week was ending that morning, but instead of heading out on one final game drive, I decided to stay behind at the lodge.

For once, I wanted to fully enjoy the lodge itself… the stillness, my deck overlooking the Sand River, the luxury of sitting quietly with coffee in hand and nowhere to be.

Just listening to birds chirping softly in the distance.

Across the river, I spotted an elephant drinking calmly near the water’s edge.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of splashing water. I raised my eyes and saw him crossing the river toward my side. Slowly. Deliberately. Water splashed gently around him as he moved, as if the river and the morning belonged entirely to him.

Soon he was directly below my deck, quietly feeding on the lush grasses and branches near the riverbank.

There was nobody else around.

No vehicle.

No crowd.

No urgency.

Just the soft sounds of the bush and an elephant enjoying his breakfast below my deck.

I softly greeted him.

“Hello, my boy…”

For a brief moment, he lifted his trunk into the air as though testing the scent of the morning. He looked toward me and our eyes met for only a fleeting second before calmly returning to feeding.

And somehow, that quiet moment felt every bit as meaningful as any dramatic sighting I have ever experienced.

Perhaps even more so.

At that moment, I realized that the deepest luxury is not merely proximity to wildlife.

It is presence.

Safari slows something inside us.

The noise softens.

The nervous system relaxes.

We notice things we normally rush past: birds calling at dawn, mist drifting through the trees, the rhythm of hooves in the distance, impala alarming in the silence between sounds.

The wilderness asks nothing from us except attention and presence.

And perhaps, in ways both quiet and lasting, the wilderness changes each of us differently.

The ideas presented in the article stayed with me this evening. And as it often happens with my mind, when I am intrigued by a thought, I pause. I reflect. I turn it over quietly until it begins to reveal something about my own life.

It is Friday night. I am at home in the house I love. I am on the couch in the living room, content after eating two fried eggs, letting the quiet settle around me as I drift into my daily musings. I sit here alone with the sound of the waves nearby, the soft breeze flowing through the open windows, the steady rhythm in the distance.

There is no sense of emptiness in this moment, only a deep and comfortable stillness.

I have always been this way.

As a child growing up in Great Neck, Long Island, my bicycle was my vehicle. If my mother ever wondered where I might be, she knew she could almost always find me at the public library. I would ride there after school, once a week, load my bike with as many books as I could carry, secure them with a bungee cord, and pedal home with my weekly treasures.

The librarian would smile when she saw me approaching the front desk.

I was never bored. There was always something to read, something to learn, something to think about, something to discover. Even then, I understood that time alone was not something to fear. It was something to enjoy.

Over the years, I learned something important about solitude:

It is not a sign of arrogance to prefer quiet over chatter.

It is not snobbery to avoid small talk that feels empty.

It is not superiority to enjoy one's own company.

It is self-sufficiency.

I have always wondered about friends of mine who, by their own admission, say they cannot sit still at home. They always have to be on the go, always seeking activity, always seeking the chatter of other people. They seem uncomfortable in silence. So I have come to wonder whether their constant movement is a search for reassurance, or perhaps a distraction, a way of distancing themselves from their own thoughts.

Why do some people run from stillness?

Is that why they need to keep moving?

Is it to fill the silence with movement, chatter, and noise?

I don't know the answer. I truly don't.

But as for me, I am content in my solitude, and I still yearn for partnership, the kind of company that nourishes my soul rather than simply fills the room.

For Schopenhauer, being alone did not equate to loneliness. In fact, he believed that highly intelligent people often prefer their own company. They are rarely bored because there is always something that motivates them. They are happy to have time to themselves.

That idea resonated with me.

The article suggested that people with highly active, curious minds often grow comfortable in solitude because their thoughts keep them engaged. They are rarely bored. They are rarely lonely. There is always something to consider, something to question, something to understand. And perhaps that comfort with quiet reflection becomes an unexpected strength in relationships, allowing space without fear and connection without pressure.

I have never needed constant activity or constant company to feel whole. I can move through the rooms of my home, occupy my own space, and feel entirely at ease. I can sit quietly with my thoughts, read an article, listen to the ocean, go for a reflective walk, or simply be still.

And that stillness does not feel like isolation... it feels like peace.

While visiting Qatar, I felt drawn to try a time-honored ritual, something spoken of with quiet reverence: the hammam. It is less a luxury and more a necessity, a cleansing ceremony woven into daily life rather than indulgence. I arrived expecting something gentle, perhaps even pampering. What I experienced instead was something far more practical, disciplined, and surprisingly effective.

The private hammam room felt like stepping into a warm cloud. Steam filled the air, thick and heavy, wrapping around me the moment I entered. Moisture clung to the marble walls, and visibility in the steam room was limited.

I heard the matron instruct me to lie down on the marble bed and make myself comfortable. I thought to myself, there is no such thing as a comfortable stone, ha ha.

I was completely naked, as is customary in a traditional hammam. A modesty cloth made of muslin was provided, though it was more symbolic than essential. So I settled onto the warm marble slab and prepared for the ritual to begin.

Seconds later, I heard the sound of metal meeting stone. Through the haze, I could see a brass bucket and a ladle as they were placed onto the marble slab. A small wooden bowl filled with coarse salt, infused with aromatic oils, appeared next to the bucket, as well as a solid block of creamy soap.

Then the matron appeared in her full glory. She was a bit corpulent, almost masculine in her presence, with the steady confidence of someone who had done this work for decades. There was nothing delicate about her, nothing ornamental. She carried herself with quiet authority, and in that moment, I understood that the hammam was not going to be a walk in the park.

The ritual began quietly, almost ceremonially. She filled the ladle with warm water and, without a word, started to splash it over me. This was no random splashing. There was a technique to it, a practiced rhythm.

I could hear the soft scoop of the ladle entering the warm water, followed by the delicate drip as it emerged, water falling back in a steady, familiar rhythm. When it landed, it struck my skin and the marble at the same time, creating a steady, echoing splash that filled the steamy room.

As the warm water flowed through the steam, it felt like silk gliding over my skin. It was, in some way, seductively soothing, the warmth, the rhythm, the sound of water moving through the steam. And this is exactly when the seduction ended.

She reached for the soap and the firm mitt, and the preparation began. She began to wash my body thoroughly, not missing a single spot. The washing with the mitt and soap was not gentle, nor was it casual. It was a deliberate preparation, ensuring that the skin was clean and ready for what clearly was the next stage.

Then the matron went to work with the salt.

There was a roughness to the rhythm that was necessary for the end result to reveal a new layer of skin. Yes, literally. At one point, the matron even climbed onto the table herself, apparently to gain better leverage. Efficiency, not elegance, was clearly the priority here. She flipped me with practiced precision; my limbs were in her firm embrace.

The end result was silky skin and a look as pink as that of a newborn baby.

In the end, I am glad that I tried something new, but the gentle reader must know that a hammam is not hedonistic in the least. In fact, it is practical, brisk, and at times a bit rough on the skin, but with a noticeably satisfying outcome.

When the ritual was finally complete, she rinsed me thoroughly, pouring warm water again and again until every trace of salt and loosened skin was gone.

I was given a robe and instructed to take a shower if I wished, but since my treatment took place in the evening, the matron said,
“I would recommend that you keep the oils on your skin overnight.”

Either way, the job had been done.

I slept like that pink baby.

Steam, silence… and a moment to myself

The workshop in Ranthambhore is part of the Dastkar organization, dedicated to preserving traditional crafts while creating meaningful livelihoods for artisans. Here in Ranthambhore, that mission continues, nurturing traditional skills and passing them from one generation to the next.

When I visited, the atmosphere was calm and focused, filled with the gentle hum of sewing machines and the careful work of hands crafting hand-sewn pieces, conversations flowing softly, and a shared sense of pride in what was being created. What struck me most was not hardship, but capability.

A Women’s Workshop

The majority of the artisans I met are women. Only 2-3 men work there, and the rest of the room was filled with women working quietly and confidently at their craft.

There was something deeply reassuring about that scene. These were not women waiting for help. They were skilled professionals, producing work of remarkable quality and beauty.

In some parts of the world, women still face limitations that many of us take for granted. Their contributions are not always fully recognized, and opportunities can be uneven. Initiatives like Datskar create space for women to earn, to learn, and to stand on their own through the strength of their abilities.

That is what dignity looks like

I buy their pieces because they are beautiful and make thoughtful gifts to bring back home. But my support goes beyond purchasing. Over time, I realized there are many ways to help from a distance.

- Sharing their work on social media gives visibility.

- Tagging their organization helps others find them.

- Telling their story introduces their craft to new audiences.

- Even a simple post can open a door.

Two months ago, one of the office women reached out to me in reference to an Instagram reel I had posted two years earlier. At that time, they did not yet have an Instagram presence. She asked if I could tag them properly going forward. It was a small request, but it spoke volumes about how social media visibility can make a difference.

That moment stayed with me. During this recent visit, I am providing hands-on support and meeting with the team to share practical ideas for strengthening their Instagram presence and helping their work reach a wider audience.

Helping From Anywhere

Supporting artisans does not require living nearby or making large donations. It can be simple, practical, and accessible to anyone.

You can:

· Follow their accounts

· Share their work

· Recommend them to friends

· Purchase pieces when you need meaningful gifts

· Speak about their craftsmanship with respect

These small actions create real impact. Sometimes the most valuable support is not dramatic. It is steady. It is consistent. It is visible.

A Quiet Sense of Purpose

I cannot fully explain why this work resonates with me, only that it does.

Perhaps it is the pride I saw in the women’s faces.

Perhaps it is the beauty of the craftsmanship.

Or perhaps it is the simple truth that talent deserves opportunity.

What I do know is this:

Support is not always about charity. Often, it is about recognition. And sometimes, helping begins with something as simple as shining a light on work that deserves to be seen.

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Instagram: @dastkarranthambhor

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