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Chris and I spent last weekend in New Orleans with friends, one of whom is from there. We hadn’t been since before Katrina, and I was curious as to how the city had changed since we were there in our early 30’s.

It turns out that the biggest change was myself, not the city. Instead of hanging around the French Quarter and drinking into the night, we were up fairly early and spent the days wandering through neighborhoods, exploring museums, and eating good food. What struck me most was the warmth of the people wherever we went.

When the Uber dropped us at the rented house in the Marigny neighborhood Friday evening, the heady, citrusy scent of the Osmanthus tree greeted us as we unlatched the vine-covered iron gate and entered the bungalow. After Scott and Natasha helped us get settled, we all walked the few blocks to St. Roch Market, where we ordered oysters on the half shell and conch tacos.

We spent the next morning walking through the French Quarter, eating beignets and drinking chicory coffee at Cafe du Monde, and exploring the Cabildo Museum in Jackson Square, where I learned a lot about Louisiana’s history. My favorite part, however, was the Michalopoulos exhibit. He has spent decades capturing the beauty and personality of the city’s historic neighborhoods in his paintings. His work is considered expressionist, as he distorts architectural lines in his quest to capture the soul of each unique neighborhood (we did, however, come across a bar in the Bywater neighborhood depicted in one of his paintings that was sagging way more in real life).

After dining on po boys, we hopped on the cable car and headed through the Garden District and into Uptown, stopping to wander in Audubon Park, where thousands of black-bellied whistling ducks perched in live oaks and floated on the pond. We made our way through Scott’s childhood neighborhood and cut through a stretch of trees to get to the shore of the Mississippi. As we headed back down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, I hung my head out the window in the balmy air and took pictures of the stately homes decked out in Christmas decorations.

After a short respite at the house, we headed back down to the French Quarter for dinner at R’evolution. Though the Quarter is reminiscent of Times Square, along with pounding speakers, neon lights, and thick waves of weed, the restaurant was a twinkling, quiet, delicious oasis.

We devoted the next day, Sunday, entirely to exploring the Bywater neighborhood. We must have walked 10 miles that day, criss-crossing practically every street, stopping to take in one beautiful cottage after another. Some were freshly painted and renovated, while others sagged with weariness. As we neared the edge of the Bywater at the Mississippi, we heard an eery whistling and followed the sound to the most surprising discovery of our trip: the Music Box Village. It looks like a tree house playground and is filled with music makers. Since they were closing in 15 minutes, they only charged us for one admission. After they offered us makeshift drumsticks, off we went to pound on pipes, pull ropes that triggered fan-powered whistling, and pull levers that set off horns. After we finally peeled ourselves away, we wandered back through the Bywater and came across a delightfully dilapidated-looking bar with a row of friendly people and dogs out front. They heartily recommended we stay for a drink. How could we refuse these nice people and their adorable dogs? After we got our drinks and joined them out front, it dawned on us that this bar is the same one we admired in Michalopoulos’s exhibit: Vaughan’s Lounge.

We spent our last day at the World War II Museum, arguably the finest in this country. Higgins Industries in New Orleans built over 20,000 landing crafts called “Higgins boats,” which were used in amphibious assaults, crucial to winning the war.

As we took off into the night sky and arced over Lake Pontchartrain and the twisting Mississippi, I vowed to not let so much time pass between visits to this friendly city with a personality like no other.

Chris and I have been in Aspen since Monday night. His parents went in on a handful of timeshare weeks with friends at a condo that looks out directly at the base of Aspen Mountain about 25 years ago. They’re thinking about selling their weeks and encouraged us to take advantage of it before it’s gone.

It’s no wonder why the rich and famous come here to play. Towering spruce trees line the edges of green spaces where kids and dogs run free, a babbling creek meanders by exquisite 8-figure homes just blocks from the center of town. A brick pedestrian way runs through the heart of town, dotted with tiny footbridges and lined with cafes and shops with billowing flower boxes.

This is the second time I’ve been here, and I’ve never been in winter, when you’re more likely to spot famous people warming themselves by fires après ski and sipping on hot toddies, visiting Kemo Sabe for custom-made cowboy boots, and ducking into Dior and Louis Vuitton. I, myself, headed for the thrift shop, just around the corner from Dior and a yacht sales office and scored a $10 pair of designer jeans that retail for well over $100. I am not above picking through billionaires’ castoffs.

We’ve hiked miles since we’ve been here, and I was very tempted to jump into the water at Devil’s Punchbowl. I’m not afraid of cold water and jumping from decent heights, but the mountain water leaves your feet numb. I passed.

I’m not sure we’ll be staying in Aspen without free lodging, but we’ll definitely be back to the area for more outdoor fun the future. Oh, and my very favorite thing about this place: Aspen trees!

I had periodically been knocking on wood during our trip because everything had gone smoothly, from the upgrade on the flight to Heathrow, to the incident-free driving on the other side of the road, to the places we stayed. Oh, and nobody ostracized us because of, you know.

Fate finally caught up with us on the journey home but in a mild manner, a refresher on how to deal with inconvenience. After a short flight from Glasgow to Heathrow, we tried to get on an earlier flight home, but it was full. No matter: our flight would get us in around 5:00 PM, in time to get home to feed the cats dinner and pick up a preordered meal from a friend in the neighborhood who is trying out his own mini-catering business.

I hate being trapped in a seat longer than a couple hours. My legs get restless, my back needs stretching, and I lose the ability to focus on what I’m reading. I’m terrible at napping, so I just have to endure it. After flitting between the murder mystery I’m reading on my Kindle and NYT puzzles I had downloaded on my phone, I watched two movies in a row. That would put me within an hour of our arrival.

My desire to be home grew with every centimeter the image of our plane on the screen crept down the eastern seaboard: Nova Scotia, Long Island, Atlantic City. Kitties, Mama is coming! Potato pancakes with gravlax and dill, sesame seared Ahi tuna, sautéed green beans, and chocolate mousse, be ready to get destroyed!

Wait. Um, captain, I think you overshot our target. You’re going to need to make a u-turn. He came on the speaker and explained that we were going to have to approach Dulles from the northwest because of storms. Arrival time would now be 5:50. Okay, not so bad. We’d be a little late for our dinner pickup and the cats would have to eat later than they were used to.

Captain! You swung too far to the east. I’d say we’re very close to BWI at this point. Well, that’s where we had to land. Dulles was not allowing any planes to land in the storm. Our gem of a captain made his way through the cabin during the two hours we were stuck on the tarmac, keeping us updated and warmly and patiently answering our questions. BWI is not staffed to handle diverted plane-loads of passengers would have to pass through customs, so we had to wait until Dulles opened up again.

We finally landed at our original destination around 9:30, breezed through customs, and took a taxi home. Our friend across the street had fed the cats, and our chef-friend’s daughter had delivered our dinner. Most of the plants were happy, and the cats had been well looked after by one of my favorite neighborhood teens.

I’d say it’s been an overall success.

We took a morning train from Edinburgh to Glasgow on Tuesday for our final stop before flying home yesterday. We sort of wish we had made more time for this city. Though not offering the surreal, mystical vistas Edinburgh does, it was charming in its own right and offered way more breathing room. I’m sticking with my infatuated praise of Edinburgh, but I have to admit the crowds were a bit much. Selfie sticks, people paying to have an owl perch on their forearms, throngs of young tourists mugging for the perfect Insta pic, Harry Potter tours…it got to be a bit much.

The train station spit us out in the middle of a wide esplanade lined with shops and cafes reminiscent of Newberry Street in Boston (or rather, the other way around). After checking into the hotel, our room ready early (much to Maxine’s delight), Chris, Edwin and I set off to walk about the city while Maxine got her alone time.

We first headed to Glasgow Cathedral, which was originally Catholic and changed to Protestant during the Scottish Reformation in the 16th century. It has remained a Church of Scotland parish ever since. It is the oldest cathedral in mainland Scotland; construction began in 1136 and took 350 years to finish.

From the cathedral, we trekked across town to the Botanic Gardens, item #1 on Edwin’s list. He has become a full-blown plant and enthusiastically pointed out his favorites, most finicky, and hardest to find. My energy was flagging at this point, not having had quality sleep in a few days, but a scoop of gelato on a cone refueled me enough to continue our adventure.

Edwin was excited to check out the subway system and felt he had pretty much gotten what he had come for, so we parted ways. Chris and I continued our trek to Glasgow University, where fresh-faced very recent grads – as of that afternoon – clustered in pairs, solo, and with parents for photos in their graduation gowns, the young women holding bouquets of flowers. According to a quick Google search, the university was founded in 1451 and is the English-speaking world’s fourth oldest university and one of Scotland’s four ancient universities. It’s mostly comprised of grand Victorian buildings, but the odd 1950’s-looking building is wedged between them. I actually found this to be part of Glasgow’s charm: the old and new mingling throughout the city. Instead of coming off as out of place, it struck me as a comforting bridge between the past and present.

We had our final dinner at a wood-fired pizza restaurant (Scotland and Wales seem to be very big on these, and they do a good job). Chris got his fish and chips for lunch, so he was content with this choice. As we discussed the highs and lows of the trip, the kids clearly were ready to go home. I guess I was too, but I was going to miss so much about Wales and Scotland. Besides the obvious (beautiful architecture and landscapes and those accents I couldn’t stop trying on to the great annoyance of my family), one thing I was grateful for time and again was their modest use of space and goods and a stronger commitment to reducing waste than we seem to have here. Instead of a 12-cup coffee pot, they use a French press. Instead of hulking trash cans, they have small ones, with larger containers dedicated to compost and recycling. They buy groceries in smaller quantities, their vehicles are smaller, gasoline is more expensive (as it should be). More people are riding bikes and taking public transportation. I guess much of this has to do with the fact that the modern world in the U.K. and Europe has been forced to exist on top of a much older foundation, so they have to make due with narrow streets built for pedestrians and carriages.

With all we’ve been going through at home, I found comfort in learning about the dark times the Scots and Welsh have endured and have managed to come through. Time to take a deep breath and dive back into the swirling chaos at home. We will persevere.

The view of Old Town, Edinburgh from the North Bridge, with your back at Edinburgh Waverly Station, is almost heartbreaking. I’ve been searching for an adjective that expresses how I feel when I take in the view, and that’s the only one that approaches expressing what I feel. It’s otherworldly. I admit I’ve never been a devout fan of Harry Pott- gasp!- but I have been entertained by a few of the movies, and this view is reminiscent of Hogwarts perched upon the cliff.

I have stopped short in my tracks each time we approach this part of town from the north side of the bridge. The sandstone and limestone structures appear almost foreboding, but their grandeur and allure win out. I’ve seen them lit by the last honey-colored slants of sunlight as the sun sinks below the hills, peppered with the warm glow of many-lit windows at night, shining boldly in the afternoon sun, and eerily shrouded in a thick fog.

As we get ready to leave for Glasgow, I have an urge to run down for one last gaze; this is similar to the feeling I get when leaving the beach at the end of a vacation; I’ve never had enough. I guess that’s a good thing because I’ll be sure to make it back some day. This is not goodbye; it’s farewell for now.

We had a day-long excursion yesterday as passengers on a 15-seat bus into the Highlands and as far as Loch Ness. I knew my recent indulgence in most of season 1 of Outlander would pay off. Our cheeky, lip-pierced, tattooed tour guide and driver, Chaz, made numerous references to the show during the journey northward.

She began the drive asking each of us to share a little about ourselves, taking the piss in a good-humored way whenever she saw the opportunity. She filled us in on Highland history and the failed Jacobite Rebellion, pointing out filming locations and references from Outlander and inadvertently revealing spoilers (I now have an idea of the terrible fate awaiting the MacKenzie clan if my hunch proves correct about them being loosely based on the real life MacDonalds).

The Highlands did not disappoint. If you squint as you peer into the misty forest and over moss-covered rocks, you can almost see the fairies flitting between the pine trees and skittering over rocks. According to Scottish legend, the fairies can be impishly mischievous and downright malevolent. Some Highland Scots used to believe that if their baby was born sickly or off in some way, the fairies had stolen the perfectly healthy infant for an imposter and would leave their baby in the forest overnight so that the fairies could come swap back out. As one can imagine, this did not end well.

We made our way past the Caledonian Canal, the lock system the Scots built in the early 1800’s to connect several lochs (lakes), which made trade and travel much safer and easier (and infinitely more profitable); instead of facing the treacherous North Sea, traders and travelers could now stay safely tucked within the glens.

The northernmost lake is Loch Ness. I had no idea how deep it is and almost entirely unexplored. The bottom drops off immediately from the shore, its deepest point being 230 meters or 755 feet, deeper than the average depth of the North Sea, able to completely submerge the Eiffel Tower with room to spare. It’s largely unexplored, not only because of its depth, but because visibility is nearly zero, due to the high concentration of peat particles in the water. Universities come from all over the world to take DNA samples from the bottom, still discovering creatures they had no idea lived there. Maybe Nessie dwells far below?

*Clarification on loch: A loch can refer to any of the following: a natural lake, freshwater lake, sea inlet, or firth (a narrow inlet or the sea, or estuary).

We arrived in Edinburgh via train from Liverpool yesterday evening. Chris is relieved to be free of driving and should feel pretty proud of himself for navigating motorways as well as tiny roads more fit for foot traffic than cars.

We met up with our friends’ son, Oliver, who is working in London for the summer and taking as much advantage as he can of being so close to so many new places to explore. Edwin and Maxine grew up with him, and it’s been nice for them to catch up and branch off from us.

Edinburgh kind of takes your breath away; its twisty stairways climbing steeply up between ancient sandstone buildings begs for you to duck into the narrow passageways and follow them wherever they lead you. The only downside is the throngs of tourists. I guess we were a little spoiled by Wales; the tourism was minimal by comparison, and we seemed to be the only Americans until we arrived in Edinburgh.

This morning we hiked up to Arthur’s Seat to get a panoramic view of the city. The wind nearly knocked me over at the top, but luckily it was blowing up and over the peak toward the lee side. This excursion was met with a wee bit of complaining from Maxine; she thought she was done with hikes after Mt. Snowdon.

We split from the kids for the afternoon, and Chris and I hightailed it for pub on the non-touristy side of town. It was exactly what we hoped it would be: locals only (except for us), £3 sandwiches and savory pies, and good beer on draft. Oh, and over 700 kinds of scotch. We tried one, which the bartender served with a touch of water to “open it up,” he said. He never recommends adding ice. I didn’t hate it.

On our walk back to the flat, we came upon a sign advertising “faff-free” service. Chris looked it up and saw that it means free from unnecessary hassle, effort, or awkwardness. That’s pretty much what our journey has been so far. I hope it stays that way for the final four days!

We did an 8-mile hike today up Mount Snowdon and down. Chris and I held firm to the plan to do the whole thing. Edwin told us about it back in the planning stages in January, and we had been looking forward to it. It’s why we brought camelbacks, hiking shoes, and even granola bars and dried fruit from Trader Joe’s.

As the day got closer, Edwin started to backpedal a little: you know, the shorter hikes are just as beautiful, we can take the train to the top and/or back down, etc. I started to wonder if this had a been a bait-and-switch situation: lure the parents to Wales with promises of grand hikes and then wear it down to a nub. Too bad. We did the whole thing without the help of a train ride.

We took the Pyg trail up, which is a rocky path mainly like climbing big stairs the whole way up. Sheep dot the jade-green hills, little white dots that become fluff balls as you climb higher. A lone lamb was crying for his family at one point, and we were happy to see that he reunited with them once we rounded a bend and looked down from above.

When we got to the top of the mountain, we could see the towns far in the distance and the peninsula we walked out to yesterday. All of a sudden, the clouds rolled in and shrouded the entire vista. We were literally inside the cloud and could only see our immediate surroundings. We figured now would be a good time to warm up with some coffee and eat our sandwiches.

Once we emerged from the toasty lounge, the clouds parted and once again revealed the valleys and sea below us. Now I think I understand the idea of the Lady of the Lake and the mists of Avalon myth. Some claim these lakes in Snowdonia are where the lady dwelled. If you have magical powers or are accompanied by the lady, you can break through the mists on the lake and enter Avalon. This myth almost becomes believable when the gray that completely envelopes you breaks apart and reveals shimmering blue water surrounded by vibrant green hills and majestic mountain slopes and peaks.

Chris and I left the flat at 8:00 yesterday morning and let the kids sleep in. We are savoring our time with them, but it’s sure easier to slip out the door without having to wait for them to be ready. We drove to Newborough National Nature Reserve and Forest, just across the Menai Strait that Caernarfon looks out upon, but you have to drive north, cross a bridge, and then head south again to get there, about a 30-minute drive.

We were one of the few cars in the lot when we arrived and headed off down the path through the woods that took us to where the strait empties into Caernarfon Bay, which opens into the Irish Sea.

We learned about Dwynwen, the patron saint of lovers. She established a church, later known as Llanddwyn, on the small tidal island of Ynys Llanddwyn, near Newborough, after retreating from court life (she was the daughter of King Brychan Brycheiniog). This island became a site of pilgrimage, particularly after Dwynwen’s death in the 5th century, because of her association with love and her holy well on the island.

Dwynwen was betrothed but fell in love with another, Maelon Dafodrill. When Maelon found out, he was so angry that he attacked her and was consequently frozen in a block of ice. This broke her heart, and she promptly ran away to a forest to pray. She was visited by an angel who granted her three wishes: to unfreeze the angry lover, to allow her to help those unhappy in love, and for her to never want to be married. In thanks for having her wishes granted, she became a nun. Oh, and she also had a well of enchanted eels who could tell the fortunes of lovesick travelers.

I love to travel and see new things. I love rolling into a new town with unfamiliar landscape and different aromas, and detecting the change in accent among the locals.

However, I am a creature of habit. I like to settle in, stock the fridge, make coffee in the morning, and call a place home for a few days. During our one-night stopover in Aberystwyth and a day of travel, I found myself longing for home and wondering if two weeks is a bit long to be away. I wondered what the cats were up to and had a sudden fear that our cat sitter had forgotten to come by and feed them or that the AC had given in to the heat and they were panting in the stuffy house (I checked the camera and everything is as it should be). I missed my morning smoothie and sitting by the pond.

Then we arrived in Caernarfon. Chris adeptly navigated the narrow streets and found a spot outside the castle walls. We gathered our bags and walked the three blocks to our next stay. We are on Palace Street, which is closed to cars during the day. The owners run the ice cream and waffle shop below us, and the castle turrets are visible from the back balcony. We put away our groceries and unpacked and then set out for a walk around town, leaving Maxine to her alone time.

Chris and I lingered at the bayside pub while Edwin headed back to get dinner started. We came upon a friendly cat on the castle steps who let me pet him (her?). When we got back to the flat, the tortellini was ready, and I threw together a salad. This is more like it.