The week of 10/12 – 10/18 is unequivocally the best that I’ve had in 2026. No question.

And that is nothing to sneeze at, loyal readers. There are a great many competitors for that distinguished honor.

To date, I’ve frolicked with a herd of the largest elk breed on the planet in Redwood National Park in NorCal (if you define frolicking by standing still as a statue from 5:15 – 6:00 am holding my phone flashlight in their general direction, praying I wouldn’t let out the rumbling fart I was holding onto with every ounce of my restraint so as not to scare them off or draw attention to myself). I’ve toured Stonehenge & Avebury, I’ve walked the medieval city walls of York and dipped my toes into King Arthur’s well in Glastonbury. I’ve climbed Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh and taken a 3-night road trip through the Scottish Highlands. I’ve scaled the Trolltunga and Reinebringen summits in Norway.

I’ve nearly been pooped on by monkeys in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, whilst eating cacao fruit straight from the plant. Perhaps not a highlight that would make everyone’s list, but that’s neither here nor there. You do you and I’ll do me.

I’ve ridden a camel around the Great Pyramids of Giza and meditated in the Temple of Horus. I’ve swum in the Nile and then dined on pigeon and camel. I have hiked into the great chasm of the Grand Canyon and stood amidst the energy vortexes of Sedona, AZ. I’ve visited 4 national parks in 4 weekends in Quebec.

I’ve immersed myself in a 4-night dance-til-you-drop music and art rave/festival in the woods outside Fredericton in New Brunswick, Canada, and stood atop Cadillac Mountain summit in Acadia National Park. I’ve hiked the Franconia Ridge Loop with 3 miles of exposed trail above the tree line in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. I’ve eaten a massive plate of lobster nachos after meandering around the Ocean Cliff Walk in Newport, RI, and I’ve paid homage to the accused witches in Salem.

I have checked a lot of motherfucking boxes in 2026.

But 10/12 – 10/18 in Alexandria, Virginia, nestled just outside of the nation’s capital, stands taller than that laundry list of who’s who of travel to-dos.

Why, you ask? Because if you’re not asking why, then I have no Godly idea what in Sam Hill you’re doing here.

Connection. Good old human connection with folks of all ages and from all walks of life. A symphony of connection, one might say. That one being me.

I am incredibly blessed and so grateful to be sponging off the invite of my very first international travel friend, whom I met by chance during a city tour of Bergen, Norway, in August of 2025. She was in that breathtakingly gorgeous city for all of one day and decided to join a tour. I was on stop 3 of my 10-day tour de force of Norway, my number one, all-time, lifelong bucket list trip. For whatever reason, Bergen was the only city that I deemed worthy of booking a guided tour.

Turns out this day happened to be Molly’s birthday. Learning of the momentous occasion, I felt compelled to treat her to a Tex-Mex-themed lunch at a spot right on the Bergen Wharf. Because anyone who’s anyone knows that Norwegian birthday celebrations are nothing without a margarita (for her) and chips and guac. And fish soup.

We ended up spending the entire day together and became fast friends, staying in touch, which prompted me to visit her a few months later that December. Molly is whom I credit for lighting the nomadic fire in my belly. This woman is a badass of the highest degree, and just weeks after we parted ways from Norway’s fjords, she was impregnated via in vitro fertilization. She chose to be a single mom and in May gave birth to a beautiful daughter. And before Sophia Grace was even born, I had earned the title “Uncle Ryan.”

Given the Nordic nature of Mom and friend’s meeting, of course I supplied her with a proper shield maiden onesie and Viking-themed beanie, as we Norwegian-crazed adopted uncles are wont to do. Molly, being the outrageously kind and generous soul that she is, opened her house for me to stay at for a time, and we landed on 10/4 – 11/7.

This stay has been circled on my calendar since we landed on it. Her house is beautiful and she is amazing, but also, HOLY SHIT, she is inviting me into her home with her infant daughter! I adore children, having been a camp counselor and childcare employee at Club Med in the days of yore.

They didn’t always adore me. A 10-year-old French Canadian boy once bit me hard enough to draw blood during a jailbreak from under my supervision. That earned him the title French Fury.

I don’t have any of my own, despite still being in touch with my former stepson, and knew getting to be part of little Sophia’s life would fill me with love and provide a tender level of healing. I also have a slew of other connections in this neck of the woods that I was itching to rendezvous with.

My first week here, I fell flat on my face as though I’d been hit with a Mike Tyson uppercut in the 90s. I was sick, was giving myself a hard time for not being energetic and enthusiastic, and Molly and the baby whisked themselves off on a family trip down south.

But week 2? That’s where the magic began…

Baby Sophia Grace and I have become fast pals. I will say this with unadulterated authority: there is no better way to start each day than to make a baby smile and/or laugh. That I get to hold this little swaddled bundle of wholesome human every morning before I expose myself to the demands of helping car dealerships advertise their wares is unmatched by any morning hack or ritual I’ve ever tried.

I’ll spare you the list. If you can think of it, I’ve done it.

Aside from getting to start my days frozen in the loving gaze of a smiling baby, I filled my schedule with connections out the wazoo.

Thursday night, I was able to support a woman who grew up in the same little West Chicago suburb as I did as she wowed the crowd at DC Improv & Comedy Club with her stand-up bit based entirely on her experience managing OCD. As a fellow mental illness manager, I really appreciate how skillfully she presented her symptoms as both severe and ridiculously comical at the same time.

Tip of the cap, Bridget McGuire, and so glad to see you thriving.

Friday night, Molly had a few friends over, which ended up in a fascinating conversation about how order and disorder/chaos and balance on a global and historic scale can all be contained within the framework of mathematics.

That’s not my hot take, and I was open to the man’s POV, but I’m too woo to buy into that logic. Some shit just can’t be fit into a scientific box no matter what you tell me. Period.

I say again, you do you and I’ll do me. Forever and ever. Amen.

Saturday, Molly had more friends over (do you detect a theme?), including an Egyptian couple who have gained asylum here despite an ungodly amount of hardship. It was nice to talk Egyptian shop with someone who didn’t think I was a celebrity (there are roughly 300 Egyptian adolescents/teenagers running around that country with photos of me) or that I was in the mob (that’s what the average Egyptian associates with Chicago. Thank you, Al Capone).

Saturday night was the main event. We found ourselves sitting at the Church of the Epiphany taking in a “Mushroom Church” performance by a scientist who goes by Modern Biology and his troupe of musical accompaniment. He did plug a variety of different mushrooms, and one carnivorous plant, into a synthesizer, and the fungi proceeded to regale us with a cacophony of sounds corresponding to their electrical output. We were ultimately underwhelmed, BUT the event brought together 2 other dear friends of mine.

My Reiki instructor and a man I met on a healing retreat in 2022. Both of whom I trade “I love yous” with.

Not to mention, I got to practice my Spanish with the mother of a Colombian-born man who was brought into this charade in his courting of Molly. This woman is a chemist who happens to have a couple of patents on mushrooms. You can’t make this shit up.

But wait, there’s more!

Sunday, I had the opportunity to stroll along the Potomac and Alexandria’s Old Town with my former boss from my current job. A man whom I respect a great deal and who I can be open and vulnerable with.

The frickin’ cherry on top? Molly inviting me to attend “Boo at the Zoo” at the National Zoo with baby Sophia and another of her friends and her 10-year-old son.

You guys, I don’t see that many people in 6 months, and all of that shit happened in a span of 4 days. I’m still reeling.

BUT here’s the ultra-woo, spiritual, amazing thing about all of this and why it is the best week of an all-time great year. I have been meditating and doing affirmations around more love in my life. Not romantic love, but feeling love, opportunities to show love, and knowing that I am loved and cared for.

Molly and Sophia have provided that in EPIC, Outback Steakhouse Bloomin’ Onion-sized proportions. But all the other folks and I have love for each other in our own unique ways. Even the brief exchanges with Molly’s friends whom I’d just met ended with a kind embrace and a promise to cut it up one more time before I leave.

For someone who spends roughly 95% of his time alone, this shift has been monumentally beautiful. If not a tad exhausting. 

I was already aware that connection is what fills my cup, and I have plenty of evidence to support that. But it’s never been served up to me at this level from so many directions nonstop.

Shit, even strangers out for strolls stop and smile to say hello.

And part of why I’m on this magic carpet ride is a mission to find who and where my people are. To be invited into Molly’s little family and joyously embraced by my own network hits all the feels in all the warmest, fuzziest ways.

As a man who moved away from his hometown because it didn’t feel like home, returned 5.5 years later, and left again with even more certainty that it isn’t home, I cherish any time I’m made to feel welcome in other people’s lives and homes.

You’re God damn right I can feel the love.