vacation – The Wandering Turtle

The Hardest Part of Vacation Isn’t Leaving

For weeks before a vacation, my mind slowly begins checking out. The countdown starts, and every day seems to stretch on forever. Work isn’t necessarily harder, but it’s harder to focus because part of me is already picturing ocean views, new cities, long dinners, and mornings without an alarm. The anticipation makes time crawl.

Then, almost without warning, it’s over.

One day you’re standing on the balcony watching the sunrise over the water, promising yourself you’ll remember exactly how peaceful you feel. The next, you’re standing in your kitchen surrounded by suitcases, trying to remember if you have anything clean to wear to work while your phone buzzes with emails that somehow multiplied while you were gone.

I’ve always thought the return home is harder than we admit. We spend so much time talking about planning the trip and soaking up every minute while we’re away that we rarely acknowledge what it feels like to step back into normal life. There’s an expectation that we should simply unpack, get a good night’s sleep, and be ready to jump right back into our routines. As if our minds can flip the same switch our luggage wheels do when they roll back into the closet.

For me, it never works that way.

Vacation reminds me of a slower version of myself. I notice things again. I linger over meals instead of rushing through them. I spend time on myself whether that’s remembering to wash my face or wearing makeup. I stop looking at the clock every thirty minutes – heck I lose track of what day it is. I find myself paying attention to conversations, sunsets, architecture, gardens, and the little moments that somehow get crowded out by everyday life. It isn’t that responsibilities disappear; it’s that they stop being the only thing occupying space in my mind.

Coming home means trading that version of myself for the one who measures her day in meetings, deadlines, laundry, grocery lists, and overflowing inboxes. Even if I enjoy my life, the transition feels abrupt. It’s almost like emotional jet lag. My body may be back home, but part of my mind is still wandering the beaches or listening to waves against the side of a ship.

I’ve started to wonder if that’s why the first few days back at work feel so exhausting. Maybe it isn’t because the workload is overwhelming. Maybe it’s because we’re asking ourselves to shift gears too quickly. We expect our minds to go from complete freedom to complete productivity overnight, and that’s asking more of ourselves than we would in almost any other situation.

When we cross time zones, we accept that we’ll need a few days to adjust. We don’t criticize ourselves for waking up at odd hours or feeling tired in the middle of the afternoon. We understand that our bodies need time to catch up. Yet when it comes to returning from vacation, we expect our minds to make that adjustment instantly.

Maybe they need time, too.

I’ve learned not to rush myself on this process. Cause if I do I get hella angry at having to work for a living lol. I like looking through the photos while the memories are still fresh instead of letting them sit on my phone for months. I’ll make one of the recipes we discovered while traveling or listen to music that reminds me of where we were. It’s my way of allowing the trip to come home with me instead of pretending it ended the moment the plane landed.

The older I get, the more I realize that the purpose of vacation isn’t simply to escape work. It’s to remember who I am when work isn’t occupying every corner of my thoughts. That version of me—the one who slows down enough to notice beauty, laugh a little more, and breathe a little deeper—isn’t someone I want to leave behind every time I unpack my suitcase.

Maybe that’s why re-entry feels so difficult. We’re not just returning to work. We’re trying to hold onto a version of ourselves that we rediscovered while we were away. And perhaps the real challenge isn’t getting back into the routine. It’s figuring out how to bring a little bit of vacation thinking into ordinary Tuesday afternoons, long after the suitcase has been put away.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Songs That Hit Deep

A few weekends ago, I was on a girls’ trip in the Texas Hill Country. We were driving down a two-lane highway, the kind that stretches out in front of you with no particular urgency, and Cody Johnson was blasting through the speakers. My best friend and I were singing at the top of our lungs, laughing, missing half the words, and completely unconcerned with how ridiculous we sounded. It was one of those simple moments that doesn’t feel significant at the time, yet somehow you know you’ll remember it forever.

As the miles rolled by, I found myself paying attention to two songs in particular: ‘Til You Can’t and The Fall. Not because they were new to me, but because certain songs seem to evolve as we do. They mean one thing when we’re young and convinced we have all the time in the world, and something entirely different after life has taught us otherwise.

If you got a chance, take it, take it while you got a chance
If you got a dream, chase it, ’cause a dream won’t chase you back
If you’re gonna love somebody
Hold ’em as long and as strong and as close as you can
‘Til you can’t

Loss has a way of changing the lens through which you see everything. Before grief, songs about taking chances, loving deeply, and embracing life can feel inspiring. After grief, they feel urgent. They become reminders that none of us know how much time we have with the people we love or how quickly the life we know can change. For those of us who have buried someone we never wanted to lose, those messages aren’t theoretical. They’re lived experience.

There was a time in my life when I would have given almost anything to avoid the storm that was coming. If someone had offered me a glimpse into the future and shown me the heartbreak, the fear, the sleepless nights, and the years of learning how to carry grief, I would have begged for a different path. I would have chosen certainty over pain every single time.

But somewhere between then and now, something shifted.

Sitting in that truck, singing those songs with the windows down, I realized that knowing everything I know today, I would still do it all again.

The ride was worth the fall
The fall was worth the smiles
The smiles were worth the tears
Tears were worth the miles
Miles were worth the pain
Pain was worth it all
It’s all worth this life
Life is worth the ride
The ride is worth the fall

That may sound strange to anyone who hasn’t experienced profound loss, but I suspect those who have will understand immediately. I wouldn’t choose the pain because the pain itself has value. I would choose it because the love was worth it. I would choose it because every beautiful thing that came before the loss mattered. And I would choose it because surviving that storm shaped the person I became afterward.

If I hadn’t lived through those years, I wouldn’t have the life I have today. I wouldn’t be Tim’s wife. I wouldn’t be the mother I am. I wouldn’t be a Mimi, experiencing a kind of joy that my younger self couldn’t even imagine. I wouldn’t have learned that people can break into a thousand pieces and somehow still find a way to rebuild. I wouldn’t understand how grief and gratitude can occupy the same space, each making the other more visible.

The truth is that so much of who I am today was forged in circumstances I never would have chosen. That’s one of life’s great paradoxes. We spend so much time wishing away the hard chapters, only to discover later that they became part of the foundation for some of the most meaningful things in our lives.

Maybe that’s why those songs lingered with me long after the trip ended. They aren’t really about loss. They’re about life. They’re about recognizing that every day is an opportunity to show up fully, to love people well, to take the trip, make the call, say the words, and stop assuming there will always be another chance. They remind me that while none of us can avoid the falls, we can decide what we do with them.

As we continued down that highway, in the pouring rain, friendship, and music, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not gratitude for the storms themselves, but gratitude for what waited on the other side of them. Because while I would never wish those experiences on anyone, I can honestly say that the life I have today—the people I love, the perspective I’ve gained, and the joy I now recognize in ordinary moments—exists because I survived them.

Sometimes a song is just a song. And sometimes it’s a reminder that the hardest chapters of our lives don’t get the final word. Sometimes it’s a reminder that while we may not get to choose every storm, we do get to choose what we do with the life that’s waiting for us after the clouds finally clear.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

Confessions of A Seasoned Cruiser

After 30+ cruises, I can tell you there’s a big difference between your first time stepping on a ship and your thirtieth. The first time, you’re wide-eyed at everything—the glittering atrium, the sheer size of the ship, the endless food options. By the time you’ve cruised dozens of times, you still appreciate the beauty, but you also know where the best coffee is without consulting the deck plan, which elevator banks actually move faster, and which quiet corner is perfect for reading when the pool deck is packed.

Boarding Day: No Panic Necessary

New cruisers often bolt onto the ship the second boarding opens, racing to squeeze in every minute. Seasoned cruisers know better. I’ve learned the art of the late arrival—letting the initial rush die down before strolling aboard without stress. The ship won’t sail without me, and sometimes the best move is to head straight for that tucked-away lounge instead of fighting the buffet line with half the passenger list.

Packing Like a Pro

On my first cruise, I packed half my closet. By cruise thirty, I’ve mastered the art of less. Packing for the Caribbean means keeping it light—swimsuits, sundresses, sandals, and easy layers that don’t take up much space. For a leaf-peeping cruise, it’s an entirely different approach. The mornings are crisp, the afternoons warm, and the evenings chilly enough for a sweater and scarf. My suitcase shifts from flip-flops to sturdy shoes, from cover-ups to cozy layers. The key is versatility and always having a carry-on ready with what I’ll need that first day, whether it’s a swimsuit for tropical waters or a fleece pullover for watching fall leaves roll by from the deck.

Skipping the Crowds

After so many cruises, I know when to join the excitement and when to duck away. First-timers chase every trivia contest and poolside game. I’ve learned the joy of finding the hidden decks no one bothers with, slipping into the spa pool when most passengers are in port, and savoring specialty dining instead of fighting buffet lines. It’s not about doing it all—it’s about knowing what fills your cup.

Loving the Rituals

Even after thirty sailings, there are traditions I never miss. The sailaway moment—drink in hand, wind whipping my hair—as the ship pulls away from port. The late-night stroll under starlight when the decks are quiet. That first coffee of the day with nothing but ocean stretched ahead. These rituals are the heartbeat of cruising, and they’ve never lost their magic.

Why I Keep Coming Back

Being a seasoned cruiser doesn’t mean the excitement has faded. If anything, it’s richer now. I no longer stress over what to pack or whether I’ll “miss something.” I know what I love, what I can skip, and how to pace myself. Every ship has its own personality, every itinerary its own surprises, and every voyage still feels like an escape.

After 30+ cruises, I’ve learned this: the sea always gives you something new, whether it’s a sunrise you’ve never seen, a flavor you’ve never tasted, or a memory you’ll carry home. That’s why I keep boarding—because cruising, at its best, is never about the count. It’s about the journey.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Welcome To The Jungle…The Concrete Jungle That Is!

Coming from Texas, New York City hit me like a wall of sound. At home, the nights are wide open and quiet—just cicadas buzzing in the heat, the hum of a porch fan, maybe the crackle of mesquite wood in the fire pit. Weekends smell like barbecue drifting from the neighbor’s backyard, and the pace of life is as steady as a two-lane road stretching toward the horizon.

In Manhattan, silence doesn’t exist. Horns blare in constant argument, buses hiss as they brake, and the subway rumbles below like a restless beast. Layered over it all are voices—thousands of them—clashing, laughing, bargaining, shouting in languages I couldn’t always place. The city doesn’t hum—it roars. And stepping into it, I felt like I’d been dropped into the middle of a song that never stops playing.

The Smells of the City

Texas air is familiar: mesquite smoke, cut grass, fresh rain on dust, the sweet smell of bluebonnets in spring. New York, though, is a kaleidoscope of scents that change block by block. On one corner, a halal cart fills the air with cumin and sizzling lamb. Walk a little farther, and roasted nuts or a hot pretzel tempt you. Then, just as suddenly, the sharp tang of garbage bags waiting for pickup crashes in. But even that fades the moment a bagel shop door opens, releasing the warmth of toasted sesame and fresh bread. It’s chaotic, sometimes foul, sometimes heavenly, but never dull.

The Rat Race in Motion

In Texas, people wave at strangers on backroads, traffic slows behind tractors, and “running late” usually means you stopped to chat somewhere. New York doesn’t have time for that. The sidewalks churn like a stampede. Before the crosswalk light even changes, crowds surge into the street, weaving between cabs with coffees in hand. At first, I hung back—hesitant, cautious. But soon I matched their stride, dodging traffic like it was second nature. The city pulls you into its rhythm whether you’re ready or not.

Finding My Place in the Chaos

Back home, solitude is easy. Step outside at night and the sky opens, stars scattered wide above dark fields. In New York, solitude is impossible—but community is everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder on a subway car, sharing an eye-roll at a train delay, or laughing when a cab screeches too close—it felt raw and unfiltered, but real. In its own way, the city made me feel less alone than an empty Texas backroad ever could.

Why It Stays With Me

New York is relentless. It doesn’t slow down, doesn’t soften its edges, doesn’t stop for anyone to catch their breath. But for a Texan used to space, stillness, and skies that seem to go on forever, the chaos was intoxicating. It rewired my pulse to its own restless beat.

New York doesn’t politely invite you to love it—it dares you. And as much as I’ll always cherish the wide skies, the slow drawl of a summer evening, and the comforting smell of barbecue smoke drifting through the Texas air, I know I’ll take that dare again.

Vacation Hangover: A Cautionary Tale of Sunscreen, Mai Tais, and Sad Reality

You know that glorious, giddy feeling when you’re heading out on vacation? That “I’m about to become a new person who doesn’t answer emails and feels completely free of life” kind of energy? Yeah. That person is gone now. She was radiant. She had SPF in her soul. She believed in naps and mid-morning cocktails because it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere.

Now? I am a shell of a human who walks around the house spraying the hotels signature scent hoping all the amenities are in that little bottle.

I have a vacation hangover—and no, I’m not just talking about the lingering effects of drinking obnoxiously strong Mai Tais that came with pineapple on the rim and flowers in the drink. I mean the full-body grief that sets in when you trade paradise for your inbox.

Symptoms include:

Trying to greet your boss in the office with a “mahalo” and a shaka sign.
Checking your suitcase to see if sand and happiness are somehow still in there.
Wondering why no one brought you a piña colada at 10am. Again.

I had big plans, people. I was going to bring vacation-me home. She was going to cook more, stress less, and somehow figure out how to infuse paradise into her everyday life. She was going to Marie Kondo her life. She was going to do all the things on her list and live every day like it was a cruise buffet breakfast.

Instead, I came home and immediately fell face first into month end at work and a folder with 100 invoices to be entered.

The worst part is how fast it happens. One minute you’re floating in a pool with no idea what day it is. The next, you’re in traffic being tailgated and cut off by an idiot who wants to exit from the left lane at 75 mph.

I unpacked my suitcase and found:

Three swimsuits
A full bag of laundry
And my dignity – still on vacation apparently

Here’s the thing: I love traveling. I love escaping. But re-entry into regular life should come with some kind of emotional parachute. Maybe a transitional period where I still get breakfast buffets and someone else makes my bed while I sob softly into a beach towel.

I’ve considered writing a letter to my vacation destination. Something like:

Dear Paradise, I miss you. I miss waking up to the sound of waves instead of construction in my neighborhood. I miss tan lines and fruity drinks. I miss housekeeping. Take me back…please? I can change. But until teleportation becomes a thing, I’ll just be here. Drinking sad weak rum and cokes. Scrolling back through vacation pictures every five minutes looking for that feeling. Searching for flights I can’t afford.

And maybe… just maybe… shaking the sand out of my shoes and smiling a little. Because even though the vacation is over, the stories, and the glow? Those stay with me.

Forever. Or at least until the next trip.

Lesson Learned: Next time, schedule an extra day off after you get back. Or just move to the beach and open a hammock store. Either way.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Weary Traveler

Have you ever just watched what is going on around you when you travel? I mean notice the people flying past you because they cut it a little too close for their flight. Or the tired mom who has a kid strapped to her, one in the stroller, and is dragging a carry on? What about the harassed TSA worker who people treat them like they personally made the security rules just to harass them?

I think with the different legs of this trip the oddities of the human race has struck me more than it usually does. It is sad to me how often a smile, “please”, and “thank you” catches people off guard. I’ve had people look at me like “what do you want” and people whose whole face lit up when they returned the gesture. It takes so little to be just a little bit kind but I can tell from watching those around me that kindness is drifting farther and farther away. Having spent many hours with crew members and watching airport workers this last week I have huge respect for what they put up with on a daily basis.

I realize it’s a sign of the times but the amount of people we ran into with zero self awareness – of others’ personal space or of their own volume – left me with ringing ears and a very intense fight or flight response (more flight than anything). I realize that with alcohol involved that is not uncommon but sheesh. I’ve been elbowed out of the way for food, had my suitcase run into when the person coming at me had six feet on the other side of them and I was walking along a wall, and been run out of my seat because the person next to me or behind me was yelling like they were at a sporting event to a person sitting less than a foot from them. I’ve seen a crew member cleaning up puke in a sink in the bathroom when a toilet was literally a foot away. I’ve talked to a lady who had to go change her shorts after sitting at a slot machine where someone opted to pee in the chair rather than go to the bathroom.

I realize this echos my last post about will kindness ever come back in fashion but how have we evolved so far from the compassionate loving creatures that God created us to be. How have we all become so focused on what WE want and what makes US feel good that we can’t extend care and compassion to those around us whose circumstances may be dramatically different than ours? What gives us the right to treat workers at airports, restaurants, and cruise ships like they are lesser than us just because they make their living in a service industry? Have you ever stopped and thought about how bad the job market must be in these Eastern European countries that they have to come here and deal with us in order to take care of their parents or children? Have we really drifted that far in the human race? To not realize that a series of different choices or factors out of our control could have placed us in the exact same position?

I miss the genteel way my grandma raised me to behave – do unto others as you would have done to you – being present in the world as a whole. Where you said please, thank you, and bless you, where ladies covered what God blessed them with, hats came off at the table, and you’d never wear pajamas to the airport or a swimsuit in the dining room at a restaurant. I’ll never ever regret traveling and I’m not perfect at kindness by any stretch of the imagination. I have my days where I literally just want to get from point a to point b at my speed and on my timeline without dealing with anyone. But when I stop and think about it I can chill.

How easily it could be me that was dependent on the kindness of others in order to keep my lights on or feed my children.

So for those of you who will read this when scrolling killing time at the airport or on a cruise ship or on the bus – say hello and smile to the person next to you. Or to the person taking your food order or sweeping the bathroom. That one kindness may wind up being the highlight of their day.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Celebrating Love & Friendship

Someone said once that time heals all wounds. I’d be willing to bet that person hadn’t REALLY had loss in their life. Don’t get me wrong. Life is moving on. In so many fabulous ways. But as I stare down the barrel of several memory anniversaries this week I’m a little melancholy.

Turns out…time never heals grief. It eases the sharpness as you struggle to breathe. It dulls the edges in a way that makes living come back in ways you can’t imagine possible in the immediate aftermath. But time does not ever heal grief. Because grief can’t be healed. Each year the calendar rolls dates around that tug the fine hairs under the band-aid you’ve put on the pain. You find ways to brace for it. To get through it. To ask for help. But on those days the pain is very much there.

TimeHop has begun reminding me of the season of life that the kids and I were in this time six years ago. This week on Friday would have been my sixteenth wedding anniversary. As I mull that over…how many years Fred has been gone versus here a knot forms in my stomach. February 4th would have been my grandpa’s birthday.

I can honestly look back and know that these impending dates don’t send me spiraling into the hole they once did. I can proudly say that is because I’ve done the work. I’ve invested the energy in myself to know that I am a survivor. But that doesn’t mean I’m not tremendously glad that when the idea came up to run away this week that I wasn’t completely and totally on board. Spend a week away with a man who loves me and makes room for the days that I’m not quite ok? Yep. Spend a week doing one of the things I love most with friends who are like family to me? Yep. Sign me up.

Add surprising all those friends to the list (my favorite thing to do to people I love) and I’m all in.

We boarded the Carnival Celebration today. To celebrate being loved. Not once not twice but by three amazing men. My PawPaw who contradicted all the crappy awful abusive men my mother chose. Fred who took a broken girl, gave her an instant family, and was patient while she loved too hard and held on a little too tight. And this wonderful man who walks beside me now. Who quietly and patiently lets me know every day that I am worth being loved. That bruised and slightly damaged as I may be I deserve to be loved as hard as I love.

We are celebrating friendship. These that I have made in all the years I’ve traveled. The special relationships I have that I constantly confuse the mess out of Tim because he can’t remember all the names but he loves them all because they make me happy.

Love hard friends. Life is short and precious and can change on a dime.

Blessings – Amy

A Whale Named Barnacles

My timing is always crazy but as I sit in my steamy beach town my thoughts are on the whale I met in September in Alaska. Hahaha. Maybe because this 2000+ lb whale made enough of an impression on me that we named Tim’s car after her. Let me tell you about our whale excursion and a whale named Barnacles.

The tour we took in Juneau in September was a whale watching tour and my greatest wish was to see an orca. When we boarded the bus our guide said that while it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility he had only seen orcas six times since April (and it was September). But the whale gods were with me. We weren’t on board the boat 15 minutes and the captain got a call that an Orca named Captain Hook had been spotted. Named such because his dorsal fin had gotten caught in something at one point and was curved over in an unnatural way. He was a scout orca for a transient pod – scouting food for his pod while they were safely some distance away. There aren’t enough words to describe the feelings that went through me when my eyes landed on that whale. There were tears and there was a video sent to my baby girl. Like most ocean things whales are OUR thing.

Back to Barnacles. After Captain Hook moved on they took us into a cove a few minutes away and there were numerous humpback whales breaching the surface. Even with many whale watching boats in the area the silence and the majestic-ness (yes that’s a word lol) of being still and listening to these huge creatures blow out of their blowholes was amazing. The air was still, the scenery behind them just stunning, the eagles soaring above them, and these huge creatures closer than you can even imagine was a once in a lifetime experience. The guide had told us to take as many pictures as possible. We were on a scientific type tour where they tried hard to match the whale tails to their records to see which of the whales they had identified were in the area so they can track their patterns, babies, etc.

Never did I ever anticipate that I would get a good enough picture of a whale’s fluke to be able to match one in the book. Mind you, I was using my iPhone. But after an hour of watching these amazing creatures breach and swim around us we headed back to shore. While we did they passed around a book for us to compare our pictures with the known whales in the area. I was stunned to realize I had a picture of a mama whale named Barnacles. (For that matter so was the guide!). She is a 57’ whale, one of the largest in the world, identified in 2007. They didn’t say if she was identified as a baby whale or not but geez that makes her at minimum 15 years old.

I went into the Alaska trip skeptical I would like the cold. Knowing the whale excursion would likely be my favorite. I was wrong on one and right on the other. I can’t wait to go back to Alaska. Made a promise to the baby girl that we wouldn’t go back without her. One I am already chomping at the bit to fulfill.

If you have nothing else on your bucket list – put Alaska on it. It’s worth it.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Last Frontier

I have no idea why but as I’ve sailed the Caribbean this week my Alaska adventure has been heavy on my mind. Maybe because I’ve been hopelessly cold….the AC works well on this ship. Maybe because of the comparisons I’ve drawn in my mind between the Holland ship I was on then and the Carnival one I am on now. Such different environments and both pull at my heart.

Alaska was….magnificent. As someone who doesn’t like the cold I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t like Alaska. I hate….I mean HATE….being cold. Bundled up like a snowman is my least favorite thing to be. What I wasn’t prepared for was that Alaska would pull at the small town girl that lives in my heart.

We ported in Juneau, Sitka, Ketchikan, and alongside an iceberg. All three of the little towns had that straight from a Lifetime movie quaintness that only a Texas girl can fully crave and appreciate. So much so I actually checked out real estate up there for a little while. But did I mention cold? We went whale watching in Juneau. To see bears and bald eagles in Sitka. Shopping and wandering in Ketchikan. The most majestic of those was the hour and a half we spent on a small boat a half mile from an iceberg watching it calve. Seeing the sea lions sprawled on the ice bergs. Listening to the sea lions tussle as they sunbathed. I wish I had the right words to describe that. Even as good as I am with words I just can’t describe it. You have to experience it.

The quiet and calm that reigns in Alaska was perhaps the biggest surprise. Everywhere you go you can just breathe. It’s peaceful. It gives you a sense of just how small you are in a big big world. Floating in a bay with the engine cut on the boat listening to the whales breach the surface was the calmest I think I have ever been in my life.

I have told several people this….I had the absolute most picture perfect Alaska adventure. My first trip to the last frontier couldn’t have been any more perfect. But I literally cannot wait to go back. And take my Em.

Have you been?

Blessings y’all – Amy

But First, Seattle!

As I sit in the airport, headed home from our Alaskan adventure, Seattle seems so long ago!!! Seattle made a huge impression on me – hard to believe it’s only been a little over a week since we landed here. While we didn’t do some of the typical Seattle nods such as the Space Needle or Aquarium we did cover a lot of ground by the market. Like literally a lot of ground – we walked about 15 miles in two and a half days!

We were blessed with a gorgeous day on the first day we were in town. The locals all said it was usually overcast. Seattle being the city with the 7th highest rainfall totals I was expecting to be wet during our time there. But Friday was literally a perfect day. We got up early (read I couldn’t sleep) and headed into the market area. This was the first thing I saw when we came around the corner. Pretty sure I almost got hit by a car stopping in my tracks to dig for my phone. 🙂

My primary mission? To get my first Pumpkin Spice Latte (PSL) of the 2022 fall season at the Original Starbucks in Pike’s Market. Tim had braced himself for the line but we only waited about 15 minutes. The barista working the door said that line can be upwards of an hour and a half and when we saw it again on Saturday I believe him! The door barista also gave me a tip to get my PSL with their “reserve” blend coffee that is only available at the original SB. It was a solid tip – it took away the bitter bite that SB coffee usually has on the occasion I go for coffee. It was well worth the four days wait for that first PSL…and I had no idea that ALL merch from that first stop was brown instead of the traditional SB green. Poor Tim got to carry a bag with him the rest of the day with my goodies.

A tiny sampling of the gorgeous flowers…

We spent all day at the market just wandering. The flowers were incredible and the smell can be a little overwhelming in some sections of the market because there are so many. If I lived anywhere close to the market I would have fresh flowers in my home all the time… They were way prettier than anything I’ve seen at the store and way less expensive! Lots of vendors selling everything under the sun – but to be a market vendor you have to be selling something original – so Tim got worried about suitcase space very very quickly. I think I have more Seattle treasures/souvies coming home than I do from Alaska.

Our second main objective was to find a little hidden speakeasy called Bathtub Gin & Co. I mean, y’all know me right? Bathtub themed? Gin? This little hidden gem was practically calling my name! Tim got a little uneasy when we wound up in a back alley on a sketch side of town but once I saw the bouncer I told him to shush – we were fine. They lead you into this dark tiny place and our seats were a cut in half bathtub! Some locals spotted “tourist” on our forehead pretty quickly and started giving out places to eat and see while we were in town almost faster than I could put them in my phone. The only thing I wish I had done different was connect the mental dots of switching out their well gin for one of the special ones they had on the menu that I like. But the atmosphere was incredible.

Saturday was pretty much a repeat of Friday. We could have gone and done other things but the market just spoke to both of us. We had a chef guided food tour of the market scheduled and for the most part they had a gluten free option for me at every stop. The ones they didn’t Tim just got to have his portion and mine! He had a lot of local perspective and stories about the market that was mingled in with our 2 1/2 hour walking tour. The market atmosphere on Saturday was markedly different than Friday – it was wall to wall people with so many sounds and smells I was quickly in sensory overload.

About 4 pm on Saturday evening we both ran out of steam. The miles of walking, most of which was on hills/stairs, plus short nights and my uncooperative stomach took its toll. We got really lucky though. The restaurant located in our hotel had an amazing menu and a very friendly bartender. We managed to kill our Saturday night there without having to leave the hotel again. It was also one of the few meals of the week that my stomach actually decided to keep. (Traveling sets off my anxiety which triggers my stomach…usually it lets up after a few days but I have been sick the entire ten days this time. It’s one of the few sour notes on the week.)

Sunday we had scheduled a Lyft to the port and other than having a few more hours to kill (I got to do one more walk through the market and Tim finally hit the line short enough to try the donuts) it was time to say goodbye to Seattle. I cannot wait to come back and spend more time in this city!

Blessings, y’all! – Amy