It was the morning after France had beaten Croatia to win the 2018 World Cup. I sat on a plane at 8 a.m., preparing to land at Charles De Gaulle Airport. My mother, sister and I boarded a train, and in just a few stops, we were standing in the heart of Paris with our suitcases in hand.
When I was a kid, I read a book in which one of the characters had the ability to see into the past. If she concentrated, she could watch everything that had ever happened in a certain place. I’ve often wished I could have that power, but never more so than when strolling the steep narrow streets of Portugal.
If you look up Good Old Books online, you’ll find that the Leland, Michigan, used and rare bookstore is only open from mid-May to mid-October. But if, on a cold winter afternoon, you walk up to a gray-blue, bi-level home with an “OLD, RARE BOOKS” sign posted in the yard, you’ll find a note signed by George and Mary Ball.
The first time I visited Boston, I was dead-set on attending Northeastern University, and the universe seemed to be telling me this was a good idea. It was August, a balmy 80 degrees, and my assigned tour guide was, objectively, the hottest one (I say “objectively” because our group somehow ended up three times as big as everyone else’s, and entirely female).
I debated back and forth for a couple of weeks about my spring break plans, but I eventually decided that being beachside was more favorable than snowed in. So, I traveled to Panama City Beach for a week of sunshine.
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