Arriving in Moscow, I went directly to a hostel I had booked in advance. The female dorm room contained seven beds. My roommates were all Russian and a few of them, for a time, were living there.  It did not seem to be unusual. Two others, in their teens, were auditioning at a school for the performing arts. They lived hundreds of miles away. Some of the women spoke a few words of English, others not at all, or at least made no effort to do so.   I often met one young woman smoking a cigarette downstairs, and upstairs drinking champagne. She had already been there a few weeks, maybe months, I do not recall. She said she was working in the area. I did not ask more.

The respect for each others privacy and possessions was clear. The women mostly kept to themselves, but the ambiance was nonetheless welcoming.

The kitchen was the common area where the guests gathered to cook, eat, chat, relax.  I was the sole American and based on stereotypes, I was, mostly, good naturedly teased by a man of Eastern European origin. He was in town to compete in, according to him, an extremely serious ESP (Extrasensory perception) contest.  He spoke of his grandmother’s gifts and talismans that had been passed on. He did not win. Based upon his faulty assumptions of me I was not surprised.

While my days were spent exploring I was back in the evening for some rest before venturing out for an evening meal. I would enjoy watching a zaftig older woman cooking bountiful food. Her diminutive husband seemed pleased. A sharing of goods took place as others would gather around the same time.

I stayed only three nights, prior to taking a train on to other cities, but the array of faces and personalities linger still.

Inis Meáin, also known as Inishmaan, is the least populated of the Aran Islands. The number of year-round residents hovers around 160. I arrived by boat from Inishmore. Unlike the horse-drawn carriages which awaited their arrivals, I was the sole passenger to disembark on this tiny land mass and the pier was void.

I had the name of the B&B I reserved, but foolishly forgot to note anything more. Despite the mere 9km square expanse, the narrow roads were many, leading off in a multitude of ways. Sheep in the adjoining pastures exhibited little interest or concern.

I chose this island for its tranquility, intact Irish culture, and lack of automobiles, so I was surprised to see a pick-up truck drive up a short time later. There were three young men wearing construction attire and I asked them for some guidance. They kindly offered to give me a ride.

Arriving off-season I was one of only a handful of visitors. Destinations were easy to choose. There was the grocery which doubled as the post office, the boutique, and the pub. It was the cherished locale during my all too short stay. The men gathered in the early evening and appeared content to sit side by side with barely a word between them. When they did speak it was a pleasure to hear Irish, their native tongue. A newcomer, she had lived there twenty years, shared some gossip. It was only a matter of time, I suspected, before all secrets were told.

The sea is never more than a short walk away. In an attempt to circumnavigate the island I scrambled over stone fences, the rain fell, the waves swelled along the rocky shore.

Lying off the west coast of Ireland are the Aran Islands. The largest, Inishmore, boasts a few ancient forts. The owner of the B&B recommended I visit Dún Dúchathair, locally known as the Black Fort, on my first day, a few miles away. I walked toward the harbor and followed the coastal road. She had given me a fairly good idea of the route but when I saw a man working on his truck, looking very much at home, I decided it best to clarify the path.

The natives in lands I travel to do not often speak English. Although Irish is still spoken here, I had to remind myself that I need not formulate a simpler means or hand gestures to convey my thoughts. My words were immediately understood and the response, floating on a lilting accent, was equally clear.

He added to his directions the caveat that the winds on top of the cliffs could be fierce. It was wise to take care.

Arriving at the fort a desire to look over the edge down to the sea was tugging at me, but I kept a prudent distance. A powerful gust almost knocked me off my feet; I was glad to have heeded his words.

The sea extended on, the view was sublime, the remnants of the ancient structure were marvels of humankind.

I made my way to the pub back in town. I ordered a pint and was soon invited by locals to discuss world affairs.

The other evening, while partaking in a weeklong arts workshop, I and a fellow participant were invited to share the blazing fire of a glassblower. He was winding down the evening with an element he knew well. A welder, a man in his seventies, soon joined us.

Our discussion was made up of disparate threads.

The welder came from a small steel town in Pennsylvania. He and his buddies, while still in their teens, would go to dances with the intention of getting close to the girls. One week, unaware, they headed to a Mennonite community. After paying an admission fee, they entered the dance hall. He was told, along with his friends, that a pillow was to be kept at all times between him and the girl. The boys had not pooled their sparse resources for such little reward.

Their request for a refund on their entry fee was denied. Disappointed and poorer still they headed home.

The pleasure of sitting by a fire listening to tales told is all too rare.

While visiting Three Sisters Sanctuary in Goshen, Massachusettes I was reminded of Opus 40 in Saugerties, New York. Each is an impressive creative realisation of one man’s vision. They may be dissimilar in many ways but both environments inspire an appreciation for singular quests and tenacity.

Three sisters is an unusual, quirky place, that is home to many imaginative outdoor sculptures, both abstract and figurative, an amphitheater made from stone, huge rocks(some credited with healing and energy), and a wetlands that boasts a beaver-made dam.

The sanctuary is designed for contemplation and peace, but the grounds also house a shop decorated with gadgets, doodads, thingamajigs and whatchamacallits.

Inside you can find a dizzying assortment of antique wood and gas stoves lovingly refurbished, if that is more your thing.

While talking about Florida a few days ago, I recalled my experience working at Hialeah Race Track. I had studied horse husbandry in high school and a friend from this program had found employment with the renown trainer of everyone’s darling, Secretariat. I would fly down to spend about a month. It was during winter break of my first semester in college and my initial experience on an airplane.

People usually associate horse racing with big money. But I was working on the lowest rung of the hierarchy at the backstretch. My job, as a hotwalker, entailed walking the thoroughbreds after their morning workouts until they were cool. My day began hours before dawn and ended in the early afternoon, I worked seven days a week, made about $62 for that week, and loved every minute of it.

I had previously been employed at Belmont, would spend the next summer at Saratoga, but Hialeah was a different kind of adventure- I was far from home. The neighborhood I lived in was predominantly Cuban and I would practice the little Spanish I knew when ordering the delicious, inexpensive, specials of meat, fish or chicken, rice, beans and platanos. I shared a motel room with my three friends, all women. We doubled up on the pull-out couch and bed.

During the early hours of the day we worked and on occasion took in the nightlife. But I recall most of our time hanging out by the motel pool.

Money was tight.

However our bellies were always sated. When we weren’t treating ourselves to the local Cuban or Chinese cuisine we subsisted largely on peanut butter, banana and honey sandwiches. It was for me a new combination of ingredients I never tired of.

I enjoy them still.

The other day a friend and I were talking about her upcoming trip to Greece.

I recalled her friend who had kindly housed me on a visit to Athens a few decades ago. She had fallen out of touch with him and was wondering if I still had his address. It was his family’s home and suspected he would be living there still.

Such began my search through a series of personal phone books that I’ve never had the heart to throw away. Turning the pages led me on a journey through my past. Names both familiar, and less so, of people appeared. Some I had not seen or thought of in years. Some I had only known briefly, perhaps just a day during one of my travels. Although most conjured a face and moments shared, others I could not recall at all.

It took a bit of effort, but I eventually located the address and phone number of her friend.

I do not know when I will be looking through these pages again, but a voyage through time awaits me when I do.

Despite the clichéd and ubiquitous slogan, I love New York.

No matter how much I have enjoyed being elsewhere, coming home to New York is always welcome. But even those we love have their faults and my experience at the JFK airport(chaos reigns at the security and customs areas) sadly does not put this great city in a positive light.

But time passes and I am inevitably on my way.

Arriving late, I take a taxi home. As is true for the vast majority of drivers I encounter, mine this evening is from a different land. His accent and appearance suggest he comes from South Asia.

When his phone rings , I am startled to hear his choice of ring tones. It is an Irish jig.

I love New York.

While in Paris I am walking, bicycling, or taking the metro to get from one place to another. All have their distinct advantages in getting to see and know the city. In the metro, because it usually lacks a view, I note the people around me.

Many passengers are engaged in solitary activities increasingly dominated by their electronic devices, but books and newpapers remain prevalent and conversations continue to pass the time. The languages spoken are diverse as are the shades of skin. Attire varies. Some seem oblivious of the clime. Some simply catch my eye.

There was a young woman sitting opposite me with a book in hand. What caught my attention was a pink pressed flower lying on the page. I have forgotten the last time I took a flower and did the same. The delicate appearance belied its use as I observed when she got up to exit the train. Its lovely form was marking the place of her page.

Choices are a part of our daily experience and making them is not always easy, but when traveling our many options and limited time become increasingly evident.

Perhaps it is best to prioritize our desires without getting frustrated by all the things we will miss. It is much more satisfying to reflect on what we did do and see rather than regret what we didn’t.

Sometimes the choices we make are not always the best ones. Perhaps the place or event did not live up to our expectations or worse. Inevitably there is always something to learn or benefit from the experience, even if it’s the story we get to tell (always funnier after the fact) of our woe.

Although there is often a temptation to imagine the road not traveled, we are best off to appreciate the path we took.