I knew this weekend was destined for greatness before it even got going Friday evening. To be frank, damn near all my weekends over the past two and a half months have landed somewhere on the greatness scale. That’s the glory of the nomad life, after all. However, this weekend had been circled on the calendar since I first landed on a stint in PVD (that’s local shorthand for Providence—I’m three implementations of “wicked good” fill-in-the-blank away from officially earning my New England stripes).

But first, Friday.

Let me begin by admitting that I am an overscheduler. It’s a weakness that has found me dragging my ass to a class or function halfheartedly more times than I can count. I’m working on debunking this erroneous, ever-present train of thought that whispers sweet nothings in my ear about making productive use of every free block I encounter. It’s a work in progress.

Gratuitous pause to recognize that there have been several periods in my life when I was more firmly entrenched on the couch than Thor’s hammer was to the ground. This overscheduling bugaboo is quite the welcome personal-growth thorn in the grand scheme.

Anywho, I thought perhaps I’d want to hit a 5:30 p.m. Power Vinyasa yoga class on Friday and signed up that morning, only for 2 p.m. to roll around with the all-too-familiar overscheduling gremlin on my shoulder snickering at me, “It’s too late to cancel, you buffoon. The show must go on.”

I begrudgingly shuffled the 15 minutes to the studio, telling myself this was what my body and soul needed to divert my attention from the gremlin, and settled into my mat with the ubiquitous pre-class old-man groans that I purposely emit to accompany my slight preparatory shifts.

A minute later, the woman checking us in for class called out with the sweetest news I’d heard since it was announced that Vanilla Ice would be featured on the soundtrack of TMNT II: The Secret of the Ooze: The instructor couldn’t make it. There would be no yoga that night.

No whammy indeed! The universe does me the 17,439th solid of my life.

Now, on to the meat and potatoes…

Approximately 49 seconds after locking down my Airbnb in Providence, I knew I’d be taking a side quest to visit Salem, Mass. The notoriety and outrageous fanaticism surrounding the infamous Salem Witch Trials drew me in like catnip. Pair that with the unexpected discovery of the Boston Harbor Islands, and I had myself quite the little two-day agenda.

Trains, ferries, islands, witches AND a trek to one of the Boston Harbor Islands with a former roommate from my first nomad stop in Montreal? Reconnection too?

Get right out of town!

The island trip was as soul-feeding as I’d hoped it would be…and now I was Salem-bound.

I’ve already been to two incredibly “woo” spots in 2026. January found me visiting a friend among the red rocks and energy vortexes of Sedona, Arizona, and April took me to Glastonbury, England. I’ve seen firsthand the bonanza of crystal and magic shops that pop up around these locales like senior citizens at Costco at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but I simply was not adequately prepared for the circus that is Salem in September.

Hold your loved ones close in October.

The best way I can describe it is Halloween-themed Mardi Gras—minus the beads, belligerent drunkenness, and frat bros getting tickets for peeing in public.

Essex Street is a pedestrian walkway full of folks decked out in costumes of all sorts, posing for pictures. I saw everything from Michael Myers to a fully loaded Ecto-1. Every other shop is a magic/crystal joint with LINES to get in.

These aren’t clubs in Manhattan or roller coasters at an amusement park. No, my friends, people were waiting in line to peruse vast collections of shit that can enhance one’s ability to do…anything you can fucking imagine.

Overwhelmed and a bit flabbergasted, I steered myself toward Salem Common, a large park, and stumbled upon a massive food-truck festival. This is where the fun truly began.

I walked in with a backpack and walked out with (deep breath): two new crystal bracelets (whatever your opinion on crystals, I like the weight on my wrist balancing out my watch—and what can be bad about believing a bracelet will bring me love and abundance?); two bags of premium jerky (snapping turtle and brisket); a bar of natural-ingredient Lebanese soap; a stomach full of an arepa and a grilled peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwich; an unforgettable conversation with a Sasquatch researcher (complete with photo evidence); and an intuitive reading done with software based on a deck of playing cards and my birthdate.

The reading was an impulse. It was unique, so I bit. It told me nothing I didn’t already know and cost me $25—which, for comparison, was $5 more than the snapping-turtle jerky, which DID tell me something I didn’t know.

This was only my first reading of the day. I had already scheduled a reading with a psychic medium for that evening at a shop appropriately called Hex: Old World Witchery.

I used to live and die by these readings and took them as pure, unadulterated gospel. Now they’re just information. Enjoy the experience; take or leave what’s said.

After the food-truck fest, I walked over to the Salem Witch Trials Memorial and simultaneously began experiencing indigestion.

PBBB sandwich, you say?

Nay…I have a cast-iron stomach once capable of downing 25 Hooters wings or 25 McDonald’s Chicken Nuggets in one sitting.

The queasiness came from realizing just how commercialized the witch-trial tragedy has become. I’ve gotten on my consumerism high horse before, but this felt blasphemous. There’s a lovely little memorial, a cemetery, and then four haunted houses and a halal joint next door. It’s…off-putting.

Keep in mind, folks, all of this was built on the backs of 20 people who were executed for being ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT—19 hanged and Giles Corey pressed to death.

Feeling energetically filthy, I bought myself a $5 hematite ring (it blocks negative energy and balances out my other ring—detecting a theme?) and a palo santo wand for good measure. I’ll be damned if I was going to carry that shit energy around with me.

On to Hex. If the idea of these establishments is to feature goods that will pull the casual witch fan into becoming a full-fledged Wiccan, then I’m afraid it’s a bit of a miss. The walls are lined with memoirs and autobiographies by living folk of the flock, so to speak, and the cover art looks precisely like the inserts in costumes found in the last-minute “Fuck me, I need to wear SOMETHING” section of Spirit Halloween.

Apparently, not even the mafia is safe from the tentacles of witchcraft.

Finally, my name was called for my 30-minute reading. I won’t share the amount I paid, but let’s just say there’s a troll toll for your readings in Salem.

Another reading sans any new information for me to work with. She was a lovely lady, and I enjoyed our chat, but no insight was gleaned from her words. I wasn’t resentful or cantankerous about it. Instead, I was reflective.

See, I’ve been doing a lot of deep work in Providence (more on all that later): healing the gap between my soul and my personality and staying in a mental space that allows goodness to flow to me. In fact, this whole year has been an exercise in bringing the previously unthinkable to life—in a beautiful way.

So why should I be surprised that both readings detailed events that had already come to pass? I have created my own reality. I realized that while readings are fun—and I won’t ever naysay the practice—I don’t need anyone to tell me what my life MIGHT look like today, tomorrow, or six months from now. I’m building that shit like a LEGO Ecto-1—a fucking block at a time.

She did gift me with 3 magic beans rubbed in essential oils to make wishes with.  I’ll keep y’all post on how and when those are implemented.  Let’s pray there’s no bean stalk involved here.

The reading capped off a long day, so I headed to my Airbnb in Peabody (pronounced pih-buh-dee) and retired for the night. I had originally planned to stick around Salem until 3:30 p.m. Sunday—to hit a museum and delve into the real nuts and bolts of the trials, perhaps even walk along the waterfront. Salem is a coastal town, after all.

But as the night wore on, I felt less and less okay with the celebrations occurring in the wake of the tragedy. Despite my ring, crystals, and wand, the energy was sitting in my stomach about as well as a Run for the Border.

I chose not to Live Más.

Combine that with a loud crash of some sort in my room at 3 a.m., and the decision was made: No one is keeping score of the to-do list in Salem. Time to blow this pop stand.

Another pause to recognize growth here: Despite spending the time to get myself all the way up to Salem, I left roughly 17 hours after arriving, on an 8:40 a.m. train.

Progress: working.

All that said, Salem appears to be a lovely, quaint little town. The stretch leading from the memorial at Proctor’s Ledge—where 19 of the victims were hanged—to downtown is full of 18th- and 19th-century homes still being lived in. I thoroughly enjoyed strolling past them Sunday morning.

And I did come away from this side quest with incredibly valuable information to carry forward:

1. I’ve tried enough of them to know that circus-like, manufactured attractions will no longer find their way into my nomad agenda.
2. Snapping-turtle jerky is well worth the effort it takes to wrangle those beasts.
3. Elvis was way ahead of his time with fried banana, peanut butter, and meat.
4. I’m the only person judging how much I do—or don’t do—on any given day, no matter where my feet, car, train, plane, or boat happen to take me.
5. Spiritual readings of any kind are unnecessary. I’m responsible for creating my own best life in the now—and forevermore.