Notes from the Red Bird House

I wrote this a couple weeks back, on a Friday evening, as I prepared for the second of three legs on my journey to Stockholm, Sweden. I love to travel and I love going new places. Sort of. There is always a moment of uncertainty, just a moment, before I realize that it's going to be ok, That I'm going to be ok. What lies below IS that moment...in writing. ~ The chaos is coming. It always does. I’ll get used to it. Sort of. As best I can. I simultaneously like it and hate it. It unsettles me, makes my stomach churn, my head throb, my heart beat quicken. But it’s only a test. A test that I can pass. A test that inevitably brings out the best in me and makes me stronger. Perhaps one day it will make me more confident. Better able to deal, less likely to worry. I have to acknowledge it, though. Where I am with it. I can feel it creeping in. Houston is still the US, yet its newness to me is off-putting. I try to call it just another airport – I’ve been to quite a few over th

I'm not your typical travel blogger. Travel bloggers, in my experience, fall into two distinct categories - Luxuristas and Hostel Surfers. Luxuristas seek out high-end places, eat extravagantly, order bottles of wine that exceed the cost of my car payment. Think Michelin Stars, Conde Nast Traveler, spa treatments and you've got 'em pegged. They take a lot of pictures of food and write about the difficulty of obtaining a good Prosecco in while sailing around Corsica. Hostel Surfers are young, wealthy enough to not need jobs to pay back student loans but not pretentious enough (yet) to be a Luxurista (yet). Imagine a Patagonia or North Face backpack, ripped jeans (or cargo shorts depending upon location and season), a scraggly beard (on the dudes), and braided hair (on the gals). Got the picture? They take selfies with locals and write about the social implications of discarded plastic water bottles in developing countries. I am (C) none of the above. I'm middle aged an