At the heart of this remote Himalayan Kingdom, Padmasambhava remains a living presence.

At first, that name was new to me. Before long, however, it seemed to be everywhere. His image appeared in temples, and guides spoke of him with quiet reverence. Kings, they said, once sought his counsel. I learned of his 8th-century journey from India to Tibet and the path that eventually led him to Bhutan. The stories continued to unfold, following me from valley to valley.

By the time I reached Paro Taktsang, I knew I was climbing toward much more than a sacred monastery. I was climbing toward a world shaped by his presence.

In the early morning, the cliffs are shrouded in fog, granting only glimpses of the buildings tucked deep within the towering rocks. A dog, just ahead, watches as I make my way up the last set of stone steps. On the terrace, cameras, phones, and other electronic devices must be turned in; none are allowed inside.

From this point on, my memory will be the only notebook I have.

Through the gate, a monk chants sacred mantras and offers a blessing of holy water. With a blink, I am inside the world of Padmasambhava.

The monastery is only beginning to stir, and the flashes of red I had noticed earlier now show themselves to be robed monks preparing for the day. Due to the early hour, we are the only ones on the stone terrace as I pause to look across the distant valley. It is now another world, far away.

Around the corner, the first doorway awaits me. As I step carefully over the threshold, a wooden sign reads, ‘Temple of Guru Dorje Drolo’. Another name I do not know.

The room is dim, and as my eyes adjust, vivid details emerge around me. There is almost too much to take in: intricate tapestries, carved wood, formidable statues, and flowing ribbons of fabric.

In the stillness, we carefully light a butter lamp, an offering for a life no longer present. Then comes a brief moment to sit, reflecting on wishes that extend far beyond my own limited experience.

Around me, however, there is movement. Monks quietly come and go, their whispers echoing through this small space. I shift slightly to make room as they gather cushions stacked along the wall. Then silence again as they disappear outside.

As I stand to leave, I take a closer look at the imposing statue dominating the room. Wrathful and intense, it is almost overwhelming at first glance. Painted eyes glower with determined ferocity, and suddenly, I am spellbound.

Yet, behind his unrelenting eyes, I sense an aliveness radiating from him with such strength that I begin to see something else glimmering just beyond his formidable gaze.

Fierce compassion. Suddenly, it is unmistakable, so clear that I find myself smiling.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but I had found myself face-to-face with Dorje Drolo, one of the eight manifestations of Padmasambhava. As a teacher, Padmasambhava appeared in different forms, embodying the lesson required: one manifestation to illuminate illusion, another to dispel confusion, and yet another to overcome obstacles.

Tradition holds that other deities were present when Dorje Drolo first arrived in this valley. Consumed by their own power and ego, they sought to prevent Buddhism from flourishing. Dorje Drolo faced them, but these are not stories of vanquishment or death. They are stories of hope: powerful forces subdued and destructive energies transformed. It is a timeless expression of compassion, so powerful that the centuries seem to disappear in its wake.

I linger as long as I can, but there is more to explore. Reluctantly, I leave Dorje Drolo behind.

Onto other rooms with darkened wood walls. Exquisitely detailed paintings that flow around me, from one wall to the next and beyond, absorbing me in their stories. Statues of the Buddha that tower above, their brilliant gold swallowing the dim light. Cryptic tales filled with symbols I try to remember.

We are high up in the farther buildings, visiting the remaining areas, when a faint sound of horns reaches my ears. Long brass instruments called dungchens produce a mesmerizing tone that echoes an elephant’s call. I am instantly curious, craving to be in that space.

On the way down, I hear the horns again, louder as I descend. A ceremony is unfolding, and the mystery surrounds me as I arrive on the terrace once again.

In the dim morning light, a fire has been lit, crackling as its smoke curls upward against the sheer granite cliffs. Unexpectedly, I become a witness to prayers being made and deities being honored. But who and why?

A smiling older monk, noticing that I am lingering to the side, motions for me to come closer and sit, then returns to oversee. Gently, he nudges a standing monk into a different position, offering a silent reminder that the flow and pace of the ritual are part of its significance.

Seated on fringed cushions, a row of monks chant in words I do not understand. Vajras and bells. Gyalings, a reed instrument similar to an oboe, resonate across the stone. The rhythmic beat of the drum.

Behind me, another monk explains the ceremony. To my surprise, I hadn’t left Dorje Drolo behind after all. The ceremony was for him.

At the edges, three other monks stand, waiting. A fourth brings items to the monk leading the ceremony, who takes each piece carefully, chanting as he places it on the offering plate. In his other hand, he holds a ritual bell, ringing it at precise intervals.

Every second seems to hold a solemn purpose.

And yet, human moments occasionally break through: I smile as one monk yawns. Another quickly shuffles through the stack of narrow, unbound sheets in front of him, as if he had misplaced the next mantra. Around him, the ceremony continues, unbroken. Strands of grain, fruit, chickpeas, rice, and ghee are offered into the fire, and after each, the air fills with the haunting reverberations of the dungchens.

After a time, I am once again reminded that we must continue on. The descent is steep, and the trip down will be almost as long as the ascent. Rising from my seat, I take a last look and turn to leave.

It is still early, but across the valley, I can see multiple figures moving steadily up the trail, on their way to what I am not ready to leave behind. Down the steps, through the gate, where the monk’s chant lingers for those yet to enter. Behind me, the smoke and incense wane.

The sounds of horns, however, follow me. As I walk, I can picture the fire in my memory and the chanting I no longer hear.

One last burst of the dungchens reaches my ears, fading as I disappear into the canyon below. By the time the trees close around me, their notes are gone altogether. Only the narrow trail remains, leading me back to another world.

Years ago, in a small school nestled among the waves of cornfields that define the Midwest, I saw a picture that took my breath away. A series of whitewashed stone buildings, impossibly perched on a cliff. Emerging from the magazine page, it seemed to be a remnant of another world, steadfastly clinging to the surrounding rock.

I copied that page and placed it in a ‘travel’ folder I carried everywhere. I had no idea where it was or even what it was called, only that I wanted to go.

Forty-some years later, that memory came back to me as I gazed upward, finally seeing in person what had been only a magazine page before. Drenched in early-morning fog, I could barely catch a glimpse before it was obscured once again. Still, I could see it was there.

Known around the world as ‘Tiger’s Nest’, this structure has captured imaginations everywhere. ‘Tak’, meaning ‘tiger’, tells the legendary story of a revered 8th-century Buddhist master, known as Padmasambhava, who flew to this mountain cliff on the back of a mystical tigress.

Looking skyward at the impressive cliffs, I cannot help but also wish for a winged ride to the top. Along with the magazine page, my knees are forty years older as well, and I have been flooded with concerns about the steep climb ahead. Altitude is also a factor in this remote Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan, and Paro Taktsang perches just above 3,000 meters (10,000 feet).

Starting on the trail, we are soon engulfed in dense trees. The sound of water draws my attention. A small mountain stream flows just to the side, powering a prayer wheel that spins continuously, releasing spiritual blessings into the world. A fitting beginning for a hike that, for many, is also a pilgrimage.

As with most compelling and historic sites, there are many layers to be uncovered. The day before, our guide had explained that the name of this place was often lost in translation.

’Nest’, he said, ‘is not an accurate title. The word tsang actually translates to ‘lair’. Its true meaning is Tiger’s Lair.’

I contemplate this as I move slowly upward on the trail, mindful of the altitude. There is quite a difference between the two words. A nest implies a temporary structure, a chosen spot for breeding and hatching eggs. A lair, however, is more permanent, a secluded resting place, a hidden base set among natural formations such as caves, rocks, and crevices.

Above me, Paro Taktsang is exactly such a place, a winding, mysterious set of interwoven buildings and caves. When I arrive on the terrace, knees intact, I am immediately enshrouded in that living legend. Somewhere, deep in the interior, I hear chanting and the echo of a horn. A flicker of a red robe in the rocks above.

A nest and a lair tell very different stories. For the first time, the photograph that had captivated me for forty years seems different as well. This place continues to live through ceremony and devotion, extending far beyond these sacred cliffs. A blessing to enter, a doorway, and the promise of even more stories waiting just inside.

It is still dark when I step off the elevator.

The spacious lobby is eerie in its stillness, hushed from the overnight calm. Usually, it’s a buzz of frantic activity: lines at multiple counters; bags are being collected, and the central area is filled with seated patrons chatting. The coffee shop hums with conversation, and on the mezzanine, people gather regularly for breakfast.

Not now, most are sleeping. The spaces around me are dimly lit, quiet, and every chair is empty. The coffee shop is closed, darkened behind glass doors, and I don’t see another person except the lone desk clerk, who casts a kind smile in my direction.

He understands. Plenty of airline crew stay here, and every night someone comes wandering through, jet-lagged and hoping for an early cup of coffee.

Coffee is not on my agenda right now, but the outdoors is.

The glass doors slide open with a hiss, and the winter air, cold and dry, strikes me instantly. I haven’t checked the temperature. I’m wearing every warm item I have, plus a windbreaker borrowed the night before from a fellow pilot. It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

The streets are quiet as I step onto the sidewalk. Even the main street, usually busy with activity, is deserted. The streetlights blink in haunting succession, directing no one. I am wandering, but I am seeking an area: a nearby neighborhood with a mix of traditional buildings.

That’s what I’m drawn to: a window into another world, another experience.

I turn off the main street into a narrow alleyway and stop, marveling at the mix of brick and neon. In the shadows, I fumble for my camera, trying to capture the feeling of quiet, the contrast of materials, and the peace that settles over me as I take it in.

My gloveless hands are no match for the bitter cold. I slip the camera back into its bag and shove my hands into my pockets, hoping to warm them.

Around another corner stands a carved figure in stone, fierce and formidable; unusual to my eye. Another attempt at a picture.

As I walk, the sun begins to rise behind me. Slowly, it spreads down the street, highlighting the buildings in front. I turn, wondering if I can see its origin.

I can.

Gently, it spills out of the darkness, washing the street in a soft, golden glow. For a moment, I pause, simply watching. One sign catches the light, then another, mixing with the fading grey of night.

The light does not bring warmth with it, not yet. Reaching for my camera again, I am surprised to find the air remains bitterly cold on my hands. Still, it is a beautiful scene, and I am spellbound, trying to capture it.

A block away, I see a man moving toward me. As he draws closer, I notice the newspaper tucked under his arm. There is a dignity in his stride; these streets are part of his morning routine, familiar and known.

I return to my camera, focusing on the shot, until he is almost in front of me. Then he stops, regarding me curiously as he studies my camera. An amused expression spreads across his face as he spins on his heel, exaggerating the turn to look behind him.

We stand quietly, side by side, looking in the same direction. I am sometimes captivated by how well we all communicate without language. He is teasing me, crossing his arms as we look down the street, engaged in a wordless conversation that clearly asks, “What could possibly be so interesting on these streets I walk every day?”

After a moment or two, he turns back to face me. His expression has softened. Smiling at me, he says gently, “Pretty.”

In that moment, the cold is forgotten as a warm joy floods through me.

“Hai,” I say, returning his smile. “It’s pretty.”

He nods, acknowledging our brief moment of shared understanding, then, with a slight bow, continues on, resuming his dignified, purposeful walk. I remain in place, reflecting on a quiet street on another continent, in a different language; a moment that needs no interpretation.

He disappears into the distance, leaving the streets empty once more.

I continue on, slower now, softer, as the sun follows me down the street. At the corner, I come across a small park. My focus shifts to coffee, and through the trees, I can see the lights of a small shop on the other side.

Crossing the park is the shortest path, and I quicken my step, following the stone walkway, intent on a hot beverage and a break from the cold. Something, however, catches my eye, and I pause, turning to look behind me.

Tucked in the trees, off to the side, I notice a small temple. I had walked right past it. Quiet, almost entirely glass, it reflects the foliage around it, nearly hidden from sight. Inside, I see a lone figure setting up for the day, carefully working around a large carved statue in the center. Golden light glows from hanging lamps, and a hint of incense drifts toward me. As I stand, I hear a soft murmur of water and notice a small pond with a stone statue at its center.

Absorbed in the scene, coffee, for the moment, is forgotten.

Yes, pretty indeed.

The Siberian winds have reached Osaka.

Sharp, frigid air, born from a frozen plain thousands of miles away, a vast stretch of remote land suspended at the edge of the map. Sweeping southeast, they eventually flow over the warmer Sea of Japan, gathering moisture that will later fall as snow. Arriving on land once more, they usher in biting temperatures that often feel much colder than the thermometer suggests.

And I, as usual, am unprepared for that icy air, even surprised as it greets me upon landing. At this point in my career, I’ve flown to Japan many times, yet I consistently underestimate the winter temperature. Thankfully, my flying partner did not, and has an extra windbreaker to offer me.

But among the coldest of evenings, I was surprised to find a bit of warmth.

On the way into the city from the airport, we begin to notice groups of candles all along the sidewalks. At first, they appear only here and there, but soon they seem to be flickering everywhere. Suddenly, the cold no longer matters, and we are eager to get outside and explore.

A magical, illuminated art walk is glowing throughout our district. Plazas, sidewalks, and building entrances: all part of a singular community event that invites people to turn off the electric lights and experience this normally hectic city in the stillness of candlelight.

The Nishi Umeda Candle Days.

Enchanted, I wander the streets in the bitter cold. Although I can’t read most of the signs, it’s not altogether necessary; the individual expressions come through in a beautifully haunting way. Handwritten messages, drawings, and even paper bags glowing from within. People of all ages, cheering each other on.

Occasionally, using my phone to translate a phrase or two, small stories emerge. A child drawn with mittened hands, wishing their sore throat would go away. Notes of encouragement and Zen phrases. Smiling, I notice a crayon sketch of a 747 bound for distant places; a dream I have shared as well.

The temperature continues to drop as the evening winds down. Still wandering, I now see displays being taken down, candles blown out, and packed away. A few groups linger, wrapped in scarves and hats, as the last of the displays disappear.

Finding a late-night spot for hot tea, my flying partner and I linger for a while, absorbing the heat as I warm my hands against the mug.

Tea finished, we step outside once again, and the stillness on the sidewalks has returned. The Siberian winds continue to follow me, but so does the warmth of community spirit and stories shared, carried by hundreds of lights, in a place far from home.

There is often the smallest thread where every story begins. A spark, an inspiration, a hint: the catalyst that breathes life into a whisper of imagination, stitched from a scattering of words.

For me, that inspiration frequently arrives through a map.

Long before I became a pilot, I was drawn to history, writers, and artists. It wasn’t just the stories in their finished form that I appreciated, but the origin of the idea itself. And with that, a question would bubble up:

Where did this history begin?

Off to the map I would go, eager to find the place and explore the perspective. I wanted to understand the terrain, picture where the sun rises, and imagine how the wind carries the echoes of time.

Later, when I started to fly, understanding those elements took on a more practical role. Learning the symbols, routes, and names of airports and waypoints intrigued me; there’s a story behind most of them, each pointing somewhere new. Even today, my digital map is filled with virtual thumbtacks; lists of places I wish to someday see.

One of my early fascinations was the American Southwest. Craig Childs’ House of Rain’ ignited my imagination with stories of lost civilizations and the Great North Road. Before I knew it, I was both reading the book and following Childs’ footsteps on Google Earth as he traced this ancient road from northwestern New Mexico.

Then, I had to see parts of it myself.

Off I went again.

That was my first introduction to ‘slickrock,’ the bare, wind-polished rock of petrified sand dunes. The term belies its true meaning; while dry, it is not slick. This ancient terrain is like sandpaper, providing adequate grip.

Still, the surface was challenging for me, both physically and mentally, as I learned to trust that the rough surface would provide enough traction to hike downhill at unnerving angles.

“Trust the rock,” our guide would say.

There were other challenges as well: the deep cracks and hidden pathways ancestral Puebloans used to travel in search of water, food, and nearby communities. Before the cities of the Americas would change the skyline forever, these ancient people navigated a complex network of stone that, to an outsider, looked the same in every direction. They also used maps, some carried in memory and others meticulously carved into sandstone walls or painted with nature’s pigments.

On a blisteringly hot day, I had a chance to see some of their carvings myself.

At first, their meanings were unknown to me, but thankfully, we were accompanied by a guide who had spent his life exploring and protecting these areas. Deep within the terrain, with no designated trails, our small group traversed a vast, deceptive landscape that concealed a sea of unmarked canyons.

As we approached a cliff wall, its sheer sheet of vertical sandstone rose high in front of me. To my left and right, it continued as far as I could see. We must be stuck; there was no obvious place to climb to the top. Following our guide, he traced a narrow path along the cliff face.

After a few moments, he stopped and turned. “See this?” he asked.

Looking closely, I could see four vertical dots carved into the face, next to a narrow crack that disappeared deep within the rock.

“This is our path,” he said, smiling. ‘Just wide enough, but we’ll have to squeeze through. Ready?’

I don’t love tight spaces, and the thought of turning sideways and wedging myself between two immense walls, while allowing the sunlight to disappear, did not appeal to me.

Initially.

Noticing my hesitation, our guide pointed to the dots again. “These are not modern carvings; this is how they marked their way. This was their path,” he explained.

A map. A signpost. From a vanished past, this crack led somewhere. A fragment that ignited my curiosity. Before I knew it, I was wedging myself inside, carefully shuffling sideways, stone pressed tightly around me.

Even with the inspiration, the path was still not a comfortable one for a modern-day hiker. After a few minutes of effort to keep my breathing steady, I found myself on the other side, stepping from the narrow gap into a spacious opening. Above my head, sunlight filtered in from a large, naturally eroded skylight. Still inside the cliff walls, I could now see the sky.

“See,” our guide said, as he pointed to a carved series of handholds and steps. “This is the way up, and out.” Sure enough, moments later, we were standing on the top, basking in the sunshine, having arrived safely via an ancient map.

A thousand years after those dots were carved, another traveler — a pilot this time — would create maps of a different kind. Also born of necessity, these pathways would lay the foundation for an entire industry.

In the early 1930s, aviation was vastly different from the complex system we know today. Airmail was the primary focus, while passenger service remained minimal and prohibitively expensive. Navigation was rudimentary, visibility was critical, and pilots relied on road maps, time calculations, and landmarks seen from above.

That was the world in which Elrey Borge Jeppesen flew: one of cold airplanes and unforgiving conditions, all of which made flights unpredictable and precarious.

As a pilot for Boeing Air Transport, which would later become United Airlines, Jeppesen routinely faced weather that could turn unforgiving without warning. Runways cloaked in fog made landings risky or even impossible. Estimated altitudes and headings over unknown terrain could lead to tragedy.

Jeppesen had an idea, though. He bought a black notebook for ten cents and began making detailed annotations. He recorded landing spots for emergencies, phone numbers for farmers who would provide weather reports, and terrain details, even climbing hills on his days off to determine their elevations.

With the information in hand, he began developing methods for pilots to safely navigate these areas. Headings and altitudes. Obstacles and landmarks. Flight paths to difficult airports. Runway lengths and airfield layouts.

He originally shared his notes with friends, which quickly gained a reputation throughout the pilot community. Before long, they evolved into charts, and the first Jeppesen Airway Manual came into being.

Today, there’s so much more: aeronautical charts with hundreds of symbols, complete airport diagrams, and detailed approach charts. Airspace designations and navigational aids. Departure procedures, obstacle notations, and protected altitudes that we use on every flight.

I remember when, as a flight student, I had that same feeling of uncertainty while learning to navigate this new kind of map, not so very different from those four dots carved into sandstone. It took time and training to trust a pathway I could not see, one that would safely guide us through the clouds.

History continues to unfold, and technology advances. Those paper flight maps, once considered so modern, have largely been replaced by digital displays. Yet Jeppesen’s legacy endures. What began with a single pilot sketching notes for fellow aviators has become a name synonymous with the electronic charts we use today.

Standing on top of the cliff, the desert sun almost blinding, I am reminded of the long history of those who crossed these same landscapes. They left maps for others to follow, providing the same foundation that guides us through fog and across thousands of miles. Navigation has always depended on trust: in maps, in experience, and in the travelers who came before us.

Dots on a cliff face, symbols on a printed page. Used again and again, refined over time, marking the way through what cannot always be seen.

Long before the Khmer Rouge terrorized this country, rural villages in the Kang Meas district of Cambodia were home to farmers, fishermen, and traders making their living along the Mekong, a heartland for the Khmer people.

The village I am visiting is called Angkor Ban, which translates to “city village.” One of the few remaining traditional villages of its kind in Cambodia, the homes here are well preserved, some dating back over a century.

When I arrive, I am struck by the weathered beauty of these structures, wood faded grey by the relentless sun, still carrying traces of vibrant color. Built on stilts to protect against flooding, steep stairways with delicately carved railings lead to the entrance. Inside, light peeks through the slatted bamboo floors, designed to allow airflow. The roof, slightly raised, offers an escape for the rising hot air.

Many of these homes are occupied by family members of the original owners. Climbing the stairs, blue doors lead me into a single large room. Even in the heat, the home’s interior feels cool, comfortable. The vaulted roof gives a sense of spaciousness, and the bamboo slats are soft and spongy under my bare feet.

A small altar of reverence, vibrant paintings, a cabinet for storage, and a wardrobe. A doorway, framed by Chinese characters for New Year’s blessings, sleeping mats rolled up in the corner.

On the wall is a series of faded black and white photos: a husband and brother, lost to the Khmer Rouge. In a devastating irony, these houses survived the violence spreading around them. They were chosen for storage when so many other villages were destroyed, and in that unintended role, they were preserved.

Outside once again, along the dusty street, a small stand displays rows of faded Fanta and Pepsi bottles, each one now filled with gasoline for the village motor scooters. Zebu, a type of cattle found in the area, take refuge in the shade. Another cart, tucked underneath a home, sells snacks and drinks. And finally, a small salon, offering hair color, makeup, and tutoring for students.

Blue appears throughout the village. Considered a lucky color, it is believed to bring happiness into the home. In the heat, it decorates windows and doors along the dusty street with quiet dignity. Nearby, an exquisite gold pagoda shines in the afternoon sun. Beyond it, a community building in vibrant peach, its chipped steps surrounded by blooming potted plants.

Children play, wares are sold, and monks stroll by in saffron robes. A community, before and now. Life continues, and the Mekong flows on.

Few things are as enchanting as a city at night.

It’s 3 am when I leave the hotel, immediately immersed in the stillness of deserted streets. Muted street lamps cast a soft glow, and above, neon reflections shimmer from glass towers. Even at this hour, the dim lights reveal their purpose: office windows hold the fluorescents of vacant floors, while warmer lights hide behind the partially drawn curtains of hotels or apartments. Most windows, however, remain dark, reflecting only remnants of a quiet city.

The air feels fresh, although a hint of the previous day’s heat still lingers. A slight breeze greets me as I stand on the sidewalk, contemplating my direction. To the left, the street slopes downward; to my right, it winds upward, quietly disappearing among the trees.

At this time of night, it’s the lights I crave, so I turn left, heading downhill to the interior of the city.

As I make my way, I pass a concrete building lingering in shadow. Two stories tall, stark, and utilitarian, it seems to defy the banyan trees growing around it. Streaks of mold, left by years of humidity, trace down faded walls. The windows are dark and seemingly empty; a staircase leads into the shadows behind curls of barbed wire. For a brief moment, I stop, haunted by the scene.

I often take pictures to remember what I have seen or the feeling it inspires. As I adjust my lens, I suddenly notice another camera above me, blinking quietly on the rooftop corner. Pausing, I remember that, although this city feels like home, I am in another country, governed by rules that are not always apparent. Tucked somewhere in my memory are cautionary tales about photos involving government buildings.

Although I suspect this building is only part of the maintenance system for the rising hills and parks around me, in the darkness, I grow cautious. I put my camera away and continue down the hill.

At the bottom, I reach a central street. Following the sidewalk, I pass empty glass buildings, closed shops, and a silent temple with imposing carved doors. A faint trace of incense wafts by, lingering from an earlier offering. As my eyes adjust to the streetlights, I realize I am not the only insomniac here.

A couple passes on the opposite sidewalk, their soft voices echoing, laughter fading as they disappear around the corner. I continue, moving past graffiti, shuttered doorways, and weathered notices posted on the faded walls. Down the street, I see a man walking toward me, wearing a fluorescent safety vest.

“Jóu sàhn,” he says quietly as he passes, an early morning Cantonese greeting. Further down the block, dim lights glow inside a bakery kitchen. Around the corner, at the end of a long, narrow corridor, I hear the muffled clatter of pans as a lone cook prepares for the coming day.

I walk another block, the quiet settling around me. A faint sound across the street catches my attention, and I notice an elderly woman shuffling along the sidewalk in front of closed storefronts. She appears frail, and for a moment I am confused: her hurry seems out of place. She quickens her pace further, then, at the corner, turns around and shuffles back. With surprise, I realize the depth of her determination: this is an early-morning exercise routine. Perseverance in the only space available, a deserted sidewalk before dawn.

Quietly wishing her well, I turn away and head down a side alley. A muted clatter draws my attention: a man is pushing a cart of garbage cans, collecting trash in the dark. Passing a darkened storefront, another man is seated on the steps, sorting newspapers for delivery.

On a small, dimly lit platform in the middle of the street, two figures wait for the tram. Since 1904, these impossibly narrow double-decker cars have rattled through the city, ringing their distinctive bell. Several hours before the full schedule begins, only a few cars are running, carrying workers east across the city. I watch one roll by, disappearing around the corner as it fades into the night.

Things are different now; this is no longer the Hong Kong I discovered many years ago. Some changes lurk in corners, almost unnoticeable, while others are unavoidable. Regardless, we are bound together by a shared human experience in this small corner of the universe. We walk the streets at night, hope for peace, share food, laugh, and greet one another in languages we may not recognize. That is our strength: not of one country, but of the entire world.

Around me, the city is waking slowly. A single bus rumbles by, carrying a lone silhouette inside. When daylight comes, these sidewalks will once again be loud and crowded. Soon, I will weave through dense crowds as markets open and lively conversations intertwine with the sounds of buses, rolling carts, and even music.

That, however, is still a few hours away. For now, I am just another shadow in the dark, alone with my thoughts. A moment of reflection: grateful for quiet streets and the human spirit that continues to endure.

It struck me while I was in the kitchen: a brief sense of quiet, then something else. Pausing to listen, an uninhibited, joyous sound fills my ears: exuberant munching.

The kittens are eating breakfast. Breakfast is usually celebrated, but this was one of the few days when they enjoy a can of their favorite meal: shrimp and tuna.

Listening, I smile as I recall the words of my own precious teacher, who would gently offer the reminder that these moments are opportunities to cultivate bodhicitta; the wish that all beings may ultimately benefit and experience happiness.

I realize I am late to that moment, already deep into a hurried, distracted morning. The act of giving food has passed, but perhaps there is still a fragment within reach. A chance to express the often-overlooked aspiration lingering in my heart.

By the joy and nourishment of this food, may all beings have a meal to enjoy and a safe place to be.

In that moment, my heart softens, and my perceived rush fades. The wish is no longer just a wish: it takes wings, floating out into the world, carrying me along.

I cannot change the world in this moment, but I can send it my love.

May all beings have happiness.

Sirius is winking at me tonight.

Blue and white flashes sparkle in the night sky and, at this altitude, I also catch glimpses of pink and red. At 32,000 feet, the air is thin, making the colors more vibrant. Watching in fascination, I am struck by the sense of both motion and stillness.

We’ve dimmed the flight deck lights briefly to scan for any nearby weather. Our radar is excellent, but nothing replaces the immediacy of human eyesight. All around me is a green glow: reflections of the overhead panel, along with indicators for pressurization, fuel, and hydraulics. In front of me are white compass headings, pink navigation lines illuminating our route, and familiar numbers showing our airspeed and altitude.

To me, it looks like home.

We’re crossing the ocean tonight, suspended between two continents, when I notice Sirius flashing softly. Its position seems unusual, and initially, I question what I’m seeing. The colors, however, are unmistakable.

I have another home, on the ground, where I often search for Sirius. From there, it sits high above as it begins its nightly journey across the sky. At this late hour, in this place, it surprises me, lingering low on the horizon, almost out of sight.

I’m well into my fourth cup of coffee, a feat I would never risk on land, lest I go without sleep for days. But here, sailing over an immense body of water, the rules are different. Time, like the horizon, seems to vanish between ocean and sky, and in the darkness, coffee becomes essential.

My electronic map shows water expanding in all directions. Zooming out, I see the coast we left behind, the one ahead, and the vastness in between.

Covering more than one-third of the Earth’s surface, the Pacific Ocean is the largest body of water on Earth. Its widest point stretches nearly 12,000 miles near the equator, more than three thousand miles south of our current position. At this moment, we are only a tiny, airplane-shaped dot somewhere in the middle.

It would be easy to feel lonely out here: stars above, ocean below.

We are not alone, however.

My flying partner and I are joined by two other pilots, who are currently taking a well-earned rest. Behind our flight deck door, twelve flight attendants move steadily through the night, caring for the three hundred and fifty passengers on board. Tonight, every seat is full.

It’s humbling to grasp those numbers. On the ground, we are immense: our weight exceeds seven hundred thousand pounds, and our wingspan limits where we can taxi. Yet now, looking at the map and the vastness surrounding us, we are so small.

Still, even here, modern technology makes our position exact. The system it evolved from, however, reaches back to the ancient practice of navigating by the stars.

Sirius, shining so elegantly in the night sky, appears in some of the earliest recorded histories. The ancient Egyptians watched for its annual rising, marking the beginning of the Nile flood. The Greeks called it the Dog Star, linking its appearance to the hottest days of summer; the original "dog days."

For ancient sailors, the night sky was everything. They noticed that familiar stars changed position depending on their location and, learning to measure those angles, they could determine how far north or south they had traveled. Using geometry in the 3rd century BCE, a Greek scholar estimated the Earth's circumference, dividing it into the horizontal bands we now call latitude.

East and west, however, required a precise measurement of time. And for two thousand years, that problem remained unsolved.

In the 18th century, an English clockmaker changed everything, inventing the first marine chronometer. With it came a second set of coordinates, the vertical lines of longitude, completing an invisible grid across the globe. At last, sailors in the middle of an ocean, with no visible landmarks, could know exactly where they were.

Early in my career, those lines lived on paper charts, and we traced our course by hand.

North forty-seven intersecting with East one-seventy. Point marked.
North forty-four intersecting East one-sixty. Another mark. Then another, and finally a line carefully drawn with a ruler, connecting each point across the water.

Today we rely on electronic maps and touchscreens, but I will never forget the fascination of first plotting those remote coordinates as they stretched towards another continent.

****

By the time I reach the ground, Sirius has already slipped below the horizon. The lines of latitude and longitude are lost to me; now I follow the concrete ones that curve through the city. The stars, once so vibrant at altitude, fade into a wash of neon. It often feels more challenging down here, and I sometimes miss the certainty of knowing exactly where I am.

Tonight, however, as I walk, a gentle breeze follows me: a reminder that the ocean is not so far away.

The streets are mostly quiet. Winding through the narrow alleyways, I catch glimpses of meals and conversation behind glass windows. I pause to decipher a worn menu posted outside a small storefront, while the proprietor watches me from inside. With a wave, I continue. My sights are set on a particular plate of spicy noodles a few blocks away.

When I arrive, the kitchen is already closed, and I move on. Surely the next alley will have something open.

“Closed,” another woman says, crossing her arms in the doorway.
“For takeaway?” I ask.
She shakes her head, sending me on.

Explanations greet me at the next series of small shops, most in languages I don’t understand. Still, they are kind, apologetic, and I can’t help but smile, even as I enviously watch diners finishing steaming bowls of noodle soup.

Eventually, I find a small store and settle for a carton of yogurt and an egg sandwich. At the end of the alley, I discover a set of stairs leading to a narrow path, thick with trees that climb the hillside. Following the darkened trail, I arrive at a small landing and pause, leaning against the fence as a faint trace of incense drifts past.

Twenty-some short hours ago, I was on the West Coast of the United States. Somewhere over the Pacific, we appeared as a tiny airplane-shaped dot surrounded by water. Now, an ocean away, I stand on a wooded trail above a sleeping city, eating yogurt and breathing in the scent of incense. Another small dot, this time surrounded by neon and narrow streets.

In that moment, I realize this is only a pause.

In a few hours, we will cross the ocean again, and Sirius will wink in the night sky, just as it has for thousands of years.

The map will mark our position. And when Sirius appears high above me, exactly where I expect to find it, I will know we are heading home.

When I was little, I loved receiving postcards.

My Uncle Carness was the best postcard writer, and I can still see his distinct script telling me about a particular hotel in a new city, or the history lesson he always included. Each card added another destination to my ever-growing travel wish list.

I’ve long wanted to write a postcard series of my own: a quick hello, a photo, and a chance to share small glimpses of the places and people that inspire me.

Thank you for traveling with me. I’m so grateful you’re here.

****

On two small hills rising from the Mekong floodplain lives a legend: Phnom Srei, the “woman hill,” and Phnom Pros, the “man hill.”

Phnom Srei is higher, echoing the story that these hills were built in a long-ago mythical competition, a rivalry between men and women. The versions differ through the ages, as with most oral traditions, yet the story remains a playful tale of gender dynamics. History, beauty, and reverence live here.

Grief lives here as well. Between the two hills lies what once was a killing field. Today, memorials stand, honoring those who died during the terror of the Khmer Rouge regime.

“We had to learn to cope with our trauma,” our guide says, explaining how the country found its way toward healing after such devastation. He had been a child then and still carried searing memories inside.

“We had to let go,” he said. “We had to dig a big hole and bury the past inside.”

When I arrive, the gardens are quiet. Once again a Buddhist monastery, I wander among carved statues, golden Buddhas tucked among the trees, a pagoda, and pathways lined with celestial attendants known as devatas, their hands folded in the traditional Cambodian greeting called a sampeah.

This is a place of study and pilgrimage, something I realize as our guide explains that he had been here as a young monk. Like many, he chose to spend time in monastic training, gaining an education while honoring his family and traditions.

Now, no longer in saffron robes, he guides visitors throughout this remarkable country that has endured so much. Over the years, he has continued teaching in his own way, sharing timeless wisdom that resonates with visitors and fellow citizens alike.

Here, so much remains.

When I was little, I loved receiving postcards.

My Uncle Carness was the best postcard writer, and I can still see his distinct script telling me about a particular hotel in a new city, or the history lesson he always included. Each card added another destination to my ever-growing travel wish list.

I’ve long wanted to write a postcard series of my own: a quick hello, a photo, and a chance to share small glimpses of the places and people that inspire me.

Thank you for traveling with me. I’m so grateful you’re here.

Fall is here, and I am still in Athens.

I am sitting on a park bench along Dionysiou Aeropagitou, the wide stone walkway below the south slope of the Parthenon. I have nowhere to go, no schedule to keep; I am simply alone. Across from me, a street musician is playing a handpan drum, its melodic notes echoing wistfully down the street. Wisps of conversation drift along the plaza, fragments of words accented by dried leaves scattering across the cobblestone.

On this quiet afternoon, I could almost forget that I’m surrounded by ancient history and living legend. When I first arrived, time was limited. A hurried list of sites had me moving quickly before meeting friends departing for Turkey and beyond.

Before I knew it, plans had shifted, and I had been left behind; the group had gone on without me. My travel companion is quarantined in a hotel room for two weeks, possibly more. I am here, slightly disoriented, lost in time. Uncertain where to go, I sit outside the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, watching a few tourists wander by.

There are all kinds of ways to be lost in this world. Sometimes it’s physical: a wrong turn in an unfamiliar city, a map that stops making sense. Other times it’s more ethereal: when the sense of place quietly becomes a mystery, as it did for me.

In those first moments, it was strange to feel suddenly alone in a city of three million, unsure where I belonged.

The wind has shifted in the past hour. From my bench, I can feel the slight chill now hanging in the air, a whispered promise of changing seasons. The sun’s warmth lingers, but shorts and t-shirts have given way to coats, hats, and even an occasional scarf. Through the days, I have watched visitors thin as October has faded into November.

At the end of the hectic summer rush, I can almost feel the entire city breathe.

On the corner is a man selling roasted chestnuts from his cart. I wandered by earlier, grateful for the hint of warmth from the glowing charcoal. The smoky scent followed me, woody and fragrant. One of my favorite street snacks, I bought a package yesterday to eat in this very spot.

A man with a bouquet of balloons wrestles the brightly colored strings as the wind catches them, a fading memory of summer. Nearby, another vendor is selling flatbread, and I can catch a slight aroma in the air.

I am still in Athens.

This morning, I sat on another bench: a wooden pew inside a small Byzantine church that I had discovered last week. One of the oldest churches in the city, it rises through layers of time: the structure dates to the 11th century, the foundations are older still, all built atop the ruins of a Roman bath.

Alone in the dim light, I gazed at carved altar gates, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of stained glass and candles flickering against musty stone. Through its circular dome, light filtered in, highlighting gold in the surrounding murals.

On that first visit, I noticed a sign stating that photos weren’t allowed, inspiring me to attempt a sketch instead. Returning over several days to practice the basics of shape and line, my presence became familiar, prompting a nun to kindly ask if I was waiting to see a priest. Explaining that I was sketching in place of photos, she smiled and disappeared briefly before returning to say the lights were being turned up and I was welcome to take a picture.

Through the kindness of strangers, I begin to sense I may not be as lost as I thought.

Now, there was time to notice daily life unfolding: older men tending steaming food carts, residents caring for street cats, the neighborhood baker helping me choose unfamiliar pastries. Children play along the coast, and nearby, an artist molds ceramics with a Minoan heart. As I wander, music floats from windows, breathing life into the streets.

Time to linger beside the Temple of Nike as it gleams in the afternoon sun, to follow the ancient footsteps along the Sacred Way. To sit on the Acropolis and watch the Parthenon as the light changes. To breathe. To dream. To just be.

I am grateful to still be in Athens.

From my park bench, I am reminded of a nearby site I have yet to see, called the Pnyx. The handpan player takes a break, and I stand, ready to wander on.

As I make my way further along the stone walkway, I pause briefly to listen to another musician playing the violin. He sends a quick wave in my direction, recognizing me from my daily walks. Someone stops me to ask for directions, and I realize I am no longer just a visitor. I may feel lost, but I do not appear to be.

The small, understated hill I am heading toward lies just west of the Parthenon, where on its rocky slope, sprinkled with olive trees, citizens once gathered in the open air to speak and be heard. Overlooking the Acropolis, with Athena’s temple rising in full view, this humble hillside would become known as the birthplace of democracy.

Walking around, I come upon the speaker’s platform, the Bema, its steps carved directly into the stone. With the guiding principle of ‘isegoria’, equal speech, thousands once gathered here; the space opened with a simple, enduring question: “Tís agoreúein boúletai?: Who wishes to speak?”

I am mostly alone this afternoon. The rocks are deserted, offering plenty of places to sit, still warm from the sun. Quietly, I settle in, allowing two thousand years of history to flow around me. These are the spots of Pericles, Themistocles, and so many others lost to time.

The Acropolis is calm this November afternoon. Looking out, I see only a few figures climbing the grand steps, a stark contrast to the usual crowds. Someone in a long orange dress pauses, as if posing for a photograph, before turning to look out toward the Pnyx. The moment lingers, peaceful and suspended, as the fabric catches the late-afternoon light, swirling vibrantly in the breeze.

I am watching the activity as people have watched from this spot for two thousand years, through the changes that have come and come again. The light shifts, the wind turns, and another season quietly takes its place.

Somewhere between the two, I realize I am no longer lost.

Thank goodness I am still in Athens.

There’s a little girl sitting in the Captain’s seat.

Wide-eyed and curious, she looks around while distractedly adjusting my pilot hat on her head, which is, of course, too big for her.

She’s probably about eight, maybe nine. The overhead panel catches her eye. She glances up; the hat slips back, and she grabs it reflexively.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to a series of buttons and dials that control our pressurization. I explain. She looks around once more and then back at me, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

She is silent for a moment before finally asking, “Do you have to be good at math?”

Her mom, standing in the flight deck doorway, upon hearing the question, catches my eye and adamantly mouths the answer she wants me to give: “yes, yes, YES.”

Instantly, I remember. Seeing myself reflected in her eyes, I feel her concern. I understand the question.

Math has always been a tricky element, and one I didn’t consider at the beginning of my own flight career. I had only unbridled enthusiasm that January, unleashed after a flight from a small airport frozen to the Midwestern tundra.

Those first moments in the air opened up a new, expansive world. The sky, once gloomy in the winter light, was suddenly alive with possibilities. An engine and propeller vibrating to life; a patch of ground becoming a runway; a set of controls and a throttle.

First were the basics of visual flight: picking a reference point on the horizon by which to practice climbs and descents. Then came navigation by recognizable landmarks: a familiar water tower, a pattern of intersecting roads lined with trees, a glistening river, a well-known barn.

A changed perspective on otherwise ordinary sights, inspiring me to ask, “What else is there to see?”

It was an intoxicating time of beginnings. Thousands of hours and over three decades later, my logbook continues to quietly remind me that those forty-two minutes in a winter sky changed everything.

There was no going back to a world without flight. Decision made, I realized it was time to get serious, and there was work to do. A license would require a new range of knowledge, a “ground school.” I didn’t really want to be stuck in a classroom on the ground, but it was necessary. Before long, I found myself upstairs in an old hangar, seated in a drafty room with a handful of other hopeful students, ready to learn about the airplane, systems, and navigation.

And math. Math? My future with airplanes had barely begun before my old nemesis returned to greet me, bringing a wave of doubts with it.

It’s no secret that I have never been enamored with math. My mother, a former math teacher, made more than one trip to the school office to discuss my lack of interest and mediocre performance. My sister, studying chemistry in college, persisted in trying to convince me as I rebelled against ninth-grade algebra. “Laurel,” she would say firmly, with complete assurance, “math is good.” I listened dutifully, but truthfully, I was only interested in art, books, and trees.

Air and wind would come much later.

When I first fell in love with airplanes, electronic flight calculators were still years away. Flight students of my vintage relied on a circular slide rule affectionately called a “whiz wheel,” which, if used correctly, could compute everything from time and distance, fuel endurance, wind correction angles, and headings to fly.

When I first saw the thing, I panicked. A slide rule is impressive even today, but this was math in its most intimidating form.

Still, painfully, calculation by calculation, I worked my way through, grasping new concepts of air density and differing types of airspeed. Back in the air, my lessons continued, and I slowly began to comprehend those numbers in motion.

My flight instructor was also a math professor, an irony I couldn’t overlook.

I continued to practice. Finally, there came a time when I was alone in an airplane on my first solo cross-country, heart pounding as I fumbled at each waypoint, recording numbers in the cold, checking my chart, and course-correcting as needed. A hundred miles later, my planned airport appeared on the horizon, exactly where the numbers said it would be.

Math began to shift. What initially felt intimidating became something different: a new way of seeing. A visible representation of unseen forces, a language that made them understandable. A way to build safety into what I was doing. That was the power of math.

When I became a flight instructor, math greeted me once again, this time in the form of the lift equation, and a different question arose: how do I make something intimidating usable? At first glance, it looked impossibly complex. But it quickly revealed the same truth I had learned years earlier in a winter sky: start with the basic pieces, understand how they relate, and the whole becomes clear.

The equation itself mattered, but there was a more nuanced layer to be discovered. Change the shape of the wing, the density of the air, or the speed, and everything responds. Lift is not a single number but a balance, one adjustment answered by another. From a Cessna 152 to a Boeing 777, the principle holds.

I still don’t love math, but I now realize the deeper lesson: something that initially overwhelms requires a deep breath and a closer look to understand its magic.

It’s something I come back to again and again, each piece, each section or element; one adjusts, the other balances. Electricity demonstrates its energy in the computations of electrons and resistance; aircraft rigging becomes a delightful play of steel cables and control surfaces. Airplanes fly with the enchanting combination of pitch and power.

Forward and up. The path to understanding is also the one to freedom.

A few years later, in a primary school thousands of miles away, I am in the company of another little girl, who is also wearing my hat.

It’s a different hat this time, a visitor’s hat with floppy fabric to protect me from Cambodia’s blistering sun. We’re sitting at her desk. She is showing me her numbers, but she is shy to speak English. “Seven plus two”, she says, her voice barely a whisper, concern in her eyes. The question is the same, from the airplane to the classroom. You know this already, but I do not. Can I possibly learn this?

Again, I see myself reflected, asking the elusive question that often arises when facing something new or unknown. Can I do this?

Yes, dear one. Always. Yes.

At first, there was only the rock, isolated in a remote canyon.

A sheer cliff face, a steep wall of basalt rising above the curve of the Waghora River. A place of solitude, perfect for meditation and spiritual reflection.

Location selected, the carving began, a process that would take hundreds of years. Without modern tools, it was a meticulous act: a commitment spanning lifetimes. Over centuries, entire structures emerged deep behind the outer facades. Inside, stone columns line elaborate prayer halls, and faint vibrations of chanting can almost be heard echoing from the rock. Dim light and dark corners seem to whisper with hidden history. Vast chambers, monasteries, and shrines; all painstakingly carved acts of love and devotion.

That was extraordinary enough, but it was just the beginning. This was only the canvas. As rooms took shape, the painters began their work. Using only natural minerals ground into pigment, they created masterpieces that still stand as some of the finest examples of early Indian art.

I didn’t know any of this at the time. Arriving from a hectic world, I felt lucky just to make it on the plane. As a result, I knew very little about this secluded canyon in India, only that it held ancient Buddhist murals, some dating back to the 2nd century BCE.

The initial uncertainty, combined with jet lag from the day before, made me question whether I was prepared for the hot, dusty three-hour drive to this distant canyon. Still, fueled by the intoxicating mix of coffee and intrigue, my travel companions and I soon found ourselves in a small car, windows rolled down, heading north across the plateau toward Ajanta Caves.

****

When we arrived, it became apparent that this place, while still remote, was no longer hidden.

Unfolding ourselves, stretching from the journey, we joined a flurry of activity. Crossing the dusty parking lot, vendors vie for our attention, eager to show us souvenirs and fruit displayed in the early morning heat.

The bustle fell away as we began the descent into the canyon. Following the steep steps bordered by rock walls, I was surprised that I could only brush the stone lightly; it was already too hot to touch. Below, the canyon walls blaze with sunlight, their carved entryways emerging from shadow, columns appearing in the harsh glare.

From a nearby tree, I spot langur monkeys watching us calmly. The leaves gently rustle as they move about the branches, hushed under the thick blanket of heat. It is quiet, and there are very few tourists today.

When these earliest caves were carved, the word Buddhism did not yet exist. After the Buddha’s death in the fifth century BCE, his teachings, known simply as the Dharma, spread across northern India and beyond. Communities, or sanghas, formed and began shaping the landscape itself. Rounded stupas rose to enshrine sacred relics, and monasteries and prayer halls appeared.

During the monsoon months, early spiritual communities turned inward, seeking shelter and sanctuaries for meditation, learning, and art. In the second century BCE, a group of Buddhist practitioners arrived at these isolated cliffs north of present-day Aurangabad and began excavation. Work continued into the first century CE, then fell silent for nearly four hundred years, until a final burst of activity in the fifth century CE completed what we see today.

Descending into the canyon, I began to notice that Ajanta unfolds in reverse. The oldest chambers lie farther away, deeper into the ravine’s curve. The modern path leads backward through time, and the first cave we encounter is, paradoxically, the last in Ajanta’s story.

Supported by royal patronage, Cave 1 stands at the height of Ajanta’s artistic achievement. Yet it occupies what scholar Walter Spink described as an “unpromising position”; its limited access, the angle of the cliff, and its orientation to the river, placing it among the last spaces to be excavated.

Entering is like stepping through a doorway into another time. The bright sunlight fades, and the hushed darkness of stone immediately surrounds me. Inhaling, I catch the faint, earthy scent of mustiness; the kind that floats up when time, stone, and dampness have kept company for centuries.

Built as a vihara, or monastic residence, Cave 1 reflects the grandeur of royal imagery. Yet, some paintings remain unfinished, and the walls bear no trace of soot from butter lamps once intended to light its ceremonies, leaving its ritual history unknown.

For me, however, the space feels alive with ceremony. Twelve massive columns tower above the empty colonnade, and as my eyes adjust, I begin to make out the walls beyond.

Ancient colors glow as intricate details emerge from softly blended backgrounds. Delicate brushstrokes narrate stories of the Buddha’s life, known as the Jatakas, alongside kings from ancient legend. Bodhisattvas, enlightened beings who choose rebirth to guide others, gaze gently outward, their graceful faces compassionate and serene.

Cave 2, carved during the same flourishing era, feels like an artistic counterpart, although feminine figures are depicted more prominently. Dark, mesmerizing circles spiral across the shadowed ceiling, guiding the eye toward an enormous carved statue of the Buddha. Moving closer to the shrine, I notice multiple rows of painted figures stretching along the walls, a later addition known as the One Thousand Buddhas, left unfinished.

Stepping outside, the langur monkeys tug me back into the present moment. I’m amused to see one sitting calmly in the shade, strategically positioned beside the information plaque, as we approach the next cave.

Reading it, I begin to understand the evolution of Ajanta. After the grandeur of the later caves, I find myself standing on the threshold of the oldest.

Carved over two thousand years ago, Cave 10 is one of the earliest prayer halls, or chaityas, at Ajanta. After the richness I had just experienced, this space feels almost austere: a vaulted hall lined with thirty-nine octagonal pillars and a plain stupa at the far end. Stark and reverent, devotion here is pared back to its essentials, haunting in its quiet.

This cave preserves the earliest form of Buddhist art. At first, the Buddha was not depicted as a human figure, but represented only through symbols: the stupa, a Bodhi tree, or the wheel of Dharma.

Even here, color has a presence. Faint traces of some of the oldest Buddhist paintings in India whisper across the walls, alongside hints of later additions that reflect centuries of continued use. Only later do I learn another quiet distinction of this cave: its many inscriptions suggest a collective, communal act of faith, rather than a single, wealthy patron.

A further contrast awaits me in Cave 26, one of Ajanta’s most elaborate prayer halls. Marking a dramatic shift from painting to sculpture, its ancient inscription describes “a memorial on the mountain that will endure as long as the moon and the sun.” Standing within, that promise feels true; every surface seems carved to outlast time itself.

An arched, vaulted ceiling soars high above, its ribs carved directly into stone. Along the colonnade, rows of seated Buddhas gaze outward, along with riders, musicians, and celestial figures caught in motion. At the center, a great rock-cut stupa rises, its base alive with sculpted stories.

There is much more to explore, but time is running short. As I head back along the path, climbing the stone steps out of the canyon, I carry with me the diversity of these chambers: the vibrancy of Cave 1, the quiet austerity of Cave 10, and the sculpted intensity of Cave 26.

When I arrived, time felt compressed, a brief snapshot of history on the flattened pages of a book. What I discovered instead was something much more dynamic: a living expression layered over eight centuries, evolving from early austerity into luminous form.

These artisans began with simplicity: an ancient spiritual practice first carved in rock, opening into refined color and increasingly intricate detail. The result rivals anything I’ve encountered, yet it rests upon an ancient canvas of stone, forged through devotion and time.

And still, in the quieter, less adorned chambers, nothing essential feels absent. What lingers is not grandeur alone, but the sacred spaces themselves, returned to again and again, shaped by the enduring human desire to touch the divine.

Somewhere between here and there, over the North Atlantic in the dead of the night, I’m reminded that this route is steeped in decades of aviation history.

We’re crossing Greenland on our way to Europe. Below me are unknown glaciers and snow-filled valleys, but up here, the stars are everywhere. Suspended in darkness, they seem to be alive, floating just above our thirty-five thousand feet. I could almost believe they are close enough to touch, but in reality, they are still light-years away.

The wind favors the north tonight, and we’re flying at latitudes up to sixty-nine degrees. Our path carries us high over frozen land, roughly two hundred miles north of Iceland, whose northern edge lies just beyond sixty-six degrees.

Looking out at the endless, star-scattered darkness, I feel as if I should be cold. Checking our onboard sensors, I see the outside temperature is minus forty-seven degrees Celsius.

I should be cold, but I’m not.

In the 1930s, pilots on these routes were certainly cold as they flew at lower, unpressurized altitudes, bracing themselves against bumpy rides with minimal heat. Ducted air from the engines, traveling long distances to reach the flight deck, was no match for the Arctic chill. At best, it would arrive lukewarm, hardly enough to prevent ice crystals from forming on the inside of the windscreen.

In those early days of transatlantic flying, these northern routes, known as ‘cold routes’, traversed some of the most desolate territory on earth. Long before nonstop flights were possible, pilots would navigate between a series of landmarks that we now pass with relative ease: Goose Bay, Bluie West One (later becoming Narsarsuaq Air Base), and Reykjavik, Iceland. These routes accomplished the once-impossible, ferrying World War II aircraft from the United States to Scotland, and would become the foundation of today’s transatlantic flights.

Even with its advances, navigation remained primitive at the time. Radar coverage didn’t become widely used until the late 1950s, and pilots depended on a method called ‘dead reckoning,’ which involved using their last known position, time, airspeed, and ongoing wind corrections. These figures determined their location along remote routes, which they would then communicate via high-frequency radio amid ever-present static.

Reflexively, I shiver slightly. We’re a very long way from the challenges of those first crossings, but I have my own memories of frigid airplanes. One particular aircraft, early in my airline career, would routinely form crystals on the inside of the windscreen. The technology existed, but the design did not, and many winter nights after a day of flying, my numb feet refused to move properly as our crew stumbled across a snowy ramp.

Those days are mostly behind me. The airplane I fly now has well-designed systems to keep the crew and passengers comfortable. Up front, however, most of us still keep a sweater tucked in our flight bags. We’re surrounded by thick glass that, while heated, can’t always keep up with the freezing outside air. It is the accepted price of a spectacular view, one which I am happy to pay.

Occasionally, a voice breaks through on the radio, though no one is near us that I can see. Out here, it feels remote, distant, otherworldly.

It’s quiet on these nights. Lost to radar contact, we are crossing seven predetermined waypoints over the ocean, continually verifying our location and distance. At each waypoint, we will send an electronic message into the dark. Somewhere on the ground, throughout the night, a screen will blink with each transmission: this is where we are, this is where we’ll be next, these are the winds, temperature, and our fuel.

The equipment we use today is remarkably precise and efficient. However, our flights still depend on the same high-frequency radio, just as the pilots before us once did.

In 1901, Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi had a theory that wireless technology could be used for long-distance communication. He proved it, transmitting the first Morse code, three dots for the letter ’s’ from Cornwall to Newfoundland, a distance of two thousand miles.

Although Marconi’s experiment succeeded, no one was exactly sure how. His work was continued by Sir Edward Appleton and Miles Barnett, whose transmission experiments revealed an ‘echo,’ indicating something high above was reflecting the signal back to earth. By calculating the return time, they could determine the height at which the reflection occurred. The distance was astonishing, spanning somewhere between 60 and 90 miles, which led to the identification of an atmospheric layer we now call the ionosphere.

Finally, the world could explain how those three dots made it across the Atlantic. Radio transmissions could be reflected, making long-distance communication possible. Marconi would win a Nobel Prize in Physics in 1909, Appleton would follow in 1947, and the face of aviation would be changed forever with what became known as high-frequency radio, or HF.

At that point, position reports and instructions could be exchanged, expanding the range an aircraft could safely operate, all via the HF frequencies that pilots monitored. It was not an easy listening experience, however. Since these communications are reflected from the ionosphere, they were, and still are, filled with constant static and ghostly, wavering voices that often fade or vanish mid-transmission.

We now have a system that functions as an interface, sparing us from the constant assault on our ears. We’re never far from static, however. Several times during a flight, we tune in to receive instructions, check the system, and transmit our position. Each time offers a glimpse of what those early days must have been like: transmitting through noise, waiting for phantom replies to emerge from the dark.

‘Iceland Radio …’ a voice, riding the waves, comes back, first low then high. Followed by some instructions, then the familiar electronic sounds which check our onboard system. We acknowledge the test, and eventually the disembodied voice responds with ‘Iceland out’. The transmission has ended, and the crackle resumes. With a grateful nod to my predecessors, I turn the volume off. The onboard system is listening now.

Recording the numbers on a checklist, I look up to realize we are far from finished with the ionosphere this evening. To my left, I can see the hazy beginnings of another phenomenon that occurs in this atmospheric layer, the aurora borealis, also known as the Northern Lights.

Solar winds, streams of charged particles, become trapped in Earth’s magnetic field and set the stage for these mystical lights. Drawn to the poles, they collide with oxygen and nitrogen molecules along the way, releasing energy that bursts into color: green and blue at the lower edges of the ionosphere, red in the heights above.

They begin faintly to the north, drawing our attention, slowly spreading through the darkness. Within minutes, spectacular green light dances all around us. Watching in hushed silence, I am awed by the fluidity of the sky, alive with unseen forces that weave together quiet, rippling light with ghostly voices and static.

Both are gifts from the ionosphere, reminding me how grateful I am for the enduring connectivity of radio waves, the warmth in a cold sky, and all those who paved these airborne pathways.

We’re not just on the edge of static, we’re on the edge of history itself.

Of all the time I have spent in this city, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it as clear as this morning.

A hundred miles from the airport, reports tell us the sky is clear, the visibility is good, but those are only numbers. I cannot yet see the light for myself. We’re busy, briefing the planned approach, reviewing charted altitudes, and anticipating airspeeds. Checklists follow, and controllers soon begin sequencing our arrival.

We’re pilots, trained to anticipate every scenario. Yet, on a clear morning when the weather is good, there’s always room for a moment or two of magic tucked between procedures and instructions.

At 5:30 a.m., with minutes left in our fourteen-hour flight, we found it.

It appears as light, descending through five thousand feet, the first shimmer of dawn. Heading south, a few miles from our final turn toward the runway, I can see the airport to my right, awash in a series of familiar lights. The surrounding darkness emphasizes that this airport is on an island, framed by inky water, with only faint outlines of mountains and scattered lights beyond.

Moments later, a faint pink light begins to emerge, a quiet sunrise blush highlighting the silhouette of Lantau Peak. To our left, we are surprised to notice that, as the light spreads, we can suddenly see all the way to Macau. We’ve all flown here numerous times, yet none of us could remember ever seeing it so clearly.

After landing, on the drive to the hotel, I watch the city continue to brighten with the morning sun. Hong Kong is always beautiful. But today, the air feels so fresh, the light is luminous, and the clarity with which it highlights every detail turns a beautiful city into one that is breathtaking.

Suddenly, I’m seized with a desire to be everywhere at once: forested peaks, my favorite temples, new sights. I want to see every bit of this city basking in glorious light.

Which immediately brought a particular site to mind: Lantau Island, home to the Tian Tan Buddha, with “tian tan” meaning Altar of Heaven.

Lantau is a large, mountainous island, mostly rural and heavily forested, located to the west of Hong Kong Island. Surrounded by peaks rising over two thousand feet, at the heart of the island is a plateau called Ngong Ping, far removed from the small fishing villages that dot the coastline.

Although the island has undergone development in recent years, the plateau has a sacred history. In 1906, three monks from mainland China arrived in this remote area, establishing “The Big Thatched Hut,” which later grew into Po Lin Monastery. As the site evolved into a pilgrimage destination, plans were made to construct a large bronze Buddha statue on the hilltop, a location that would captivate pilgrims and travelers for generations.

I had sought out this ten-story-high Buddha on a previous trip to Hong Kong. At that time, however, the city was blanketed in a heavy layer of fog. Cold and mysterious, it wrapped everything in a veil, making it almost impossible to grasp the scope of the towering peaks, the gondola ride, or even the Buddha itself.

When I arrived on the plateau that day, the thick fog and drizzle made it hard to see more than a few feet. With only a water-soaked paper map, my travel companion and I made our way carefully across the wet stones, passing under an archway that loomed in the dense fog.

Suddenly, a figure took shape; towering, fierce, its frozen expression carved in stone. Eyes fixed, sword raised, it commanded the path and issued a silent warning before dissolving back into the mist. As we moved forward cautiously, another materialized, sudden and forceful, to take its place. Who were these ghostly figures? It was unclear how many there were, but with each step, a different warrior emerged. Confronting us wordlessly, they seemed to grant passage before vanishing once more into the shifting fog.

I was both enchanted and intimidated, surrounded by the haunting silence and the gentle, muffled rhythm of drizzle against my hooded jacket.

A cow appeared. Emerging from the mist, it took a moment to realize this was a living creature. A guide, perhaps, or simply another traveler seeking the path? Pausing in front of me, we exchanged a silent greeting. Upon realizing I had neither directions nor answers, it quietly turned to move away. I followed. Knowing the area, this sure-footed creature must be a better guide than I.

The cow vanished from sight. The mist closed around us, and once again, we were alone. Yet, we had been set on the right direction. Moments later, a large, statuesque gate took shape. Ornate and carved, its full scale was difficult to discern. Still, it marked our location, orienting us towards the long stairway that would lead to the hilltop Buddha.

A steady climb led to a broad terrace. Only a ghostly outline of the Buddha greeted us: a darkened form veiled in fog. As I walked about the circular path, other figures took shape; female, delicate, each holding offerings, their gestures barely discernible through the shifting mist.

A stiff breeze blew through, scattering the fog, and suddenly, the immense Buddha appeared, his bronze hands positioned in a mudra, a symbolic hand gesture. Briefly, I could make out his right hand raised in protection and blessing, his left open in his lap, a gesture of generosity.

Just for a moment, though. The next brush of wind ushered in another patch of fog, and in a breath, he disappeared again. I waited, but the Buddha remained hidden, my fleeting glimpse having to suffice.

I had always wondered what I missed that foggy day.

Today, the luminous morning light offers an answer. Despite the distance, I can’t resist returning to see how the plateau appears in sunlight; mountains rising behind arched gates and the fierce stone figures, once ghostly and mysterious, now fully revealed.

As it turns out, they have a name after all: The Divine Generals.

Walking through the entry gate, I can’t help but smile at meeting them again. Still imposing but no longer shrouded, these twelve protective deities, or yakshas, have long stood guard over Buddhist teachings and practitioners. Over the centuries, their vigil extended to time itself, with each presiding over two hours of the day in the Chinese Zodiac. Today, they continue to secure the walkway with care, six on each side. One raises a sword in defense, another steadies an ax, and a third lifts a vajra, the indestructible scepter, high above.

Quietly, I continue past them, noticing that on this clear morning, there are already several tourists here. The Generals, it seems, are too busy for me today.

Arriving at the gate of Po Lin Monastery, what was once a hazy outline shrouded in fog is now clear. White granite forms a three-arched opening, topped with decorative tiers of square blocks called dougong. Further in the background, Lantau Peak rises majestically.

Turning, I notice that the immense Buddha is clearly visible, all the way from the bottom of the long stairs. Climbing to the top, I once again reach the circular path around the base. I can finally see the kneeling female figures, no longer veiled in fog. Representing the Six Perfections, these divas, celestial beings, offer gifts such as flowers, incense, and music; gestures of generosity and wisdom.

An Altar of Heaven, indeed.

Looking across the forested hills to the ocean beyond, I couldn’t have chosen between my visits. Both were beautiful. Perhaps that’s the point of any journey: the chance to see anew. Fog made the first visit magical: mysterious and hidden. I could have left it there, had I not returned, content with mists and shadows. But on this clear morning, a new kind of magic is in play: the mountains, the Divine Generals, and Tian Tan Buddha stand fully revealed, offering me a closer look and a second chance to see.

It’s an odd way to live life, in this pilot mind of mine: one foot in watchful preparation, the other aware of moments beyond our control. We are well-trained for both. Still, I find myself looking for the bit of magic each flight offers: clear air, a radiant sunrise, or even a familiar city shining in a new light. Of the many lessons this career continues to teach me, balance may be the most significant.

As it turns out, fog is just fog.

More than 79 million passengers pass through Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport each year.

Tonight, in this vast crossroads of India, I am one of them.

Even though it’s after dark when I arrive, the heat is still oppressive. At this late hour, the terminal is surprisingly crowded and loud as I navigate the arrival process, jet-lagged and disoriented. Everywhere I look, there are signs in unfamiliar languages, airlines unknown to me, and styles of clothing unlike my own. Culture, food, prayers, greetings, even gestures: the list feels endless, the differences sometimes overwhelming.

This is what makes travel so precious: not just as a crewmember, but as a person stumbling through this expansive, complex, and diverse world.

It’s a humbling surprise to realize that, at this point in my airline career, I have flown into nearly all of the world’s busiest airports, often as a pilot, other times a passenger. They are all procedurally distinct and consistently busy. Still, Delhi feels unique - not only because of the sheer number of people who pass through its terminals, but also because of the remarkable diversity among travelers. Drawing from all regions of this vibrant country and every continent beyond, Delhi hosts an astonishing range of passengers: pilgrims, local travelers, international tourists, monks and religious leaders, businesspeople, and students. It is among the most diverse airports I have experienced.

My connecting flight is in another terminal, so I head outside. Making my way through the crowd to the next series of entrances, I’m met with hectic traffic: horns blaring, music spilling out from somewhere unseen. Languages I don’t understand swirl around me, taxi drivers calling out, each voice attempting to rise above the rest. At the entrance to the next terminal, signs indecipherable to me direct travelers to multiple security access points leading inside. After a moment, I take a guess and choose a line, knowing that time is on my side. If this isn’t the correct checkpoint, I can move to the next.

And then, amid the noise and unfamiliarity, a quiet story unfolds.

As the line fills in, I notice a young man just ahead of me, looking straight ahead, stoic and unsmiling. Outside the barrier, a man in a simple saffron turban and a woman in a colorfully woven sari, possibly his parents or close relatives, watch him intently, their eyes filled with visible pride.

Holding a small camera, they take pictures of him, regarding him with such tenderness that it touches my heart. The universal language of leaving home. Going away to school, starting a new job, or even departing the country. I have no way of knowing.

He does not look in their direction, but the woman catches my eye and we share a gentle smile. I remember: adults everywhere understand what the young do not yet see. Enthusiastically, they carry well-earned pride, venturing eagerly out into the world, but we, the adults, understand letting go, goodbyes, and loss. Silently, I send her my love.

What differences possibly matter in the face of such exquisite humanity?

Around the world, I have been captivated by these moments, each illustrating a story of commonality regardless of the cultural differences or languages spoken: an Egyptian boat captain who, unlike my own uniform, wore no stripes of rank; a woman raising her arm in joyous triumph before an ancient landmark; another having her hair cut in an open market; a child asleep on his mother’s lap in a railway station.

These are the snapshots I carry with me: inspirations and the ever-present reminder that, wherever we may land, our stories inevitably overlap.

I first met Apollo in the seventh grade.

He was two-dimensional then, myth and language entwined, black and white words on the pages of a small paperback. Mythology would be the subject of our upcoming English class.

I was instantly inspired. This world was unfamiliar to me, and I loved the introduction to both ancient history and legend from the very beginning. I’m not sure how many times I read that book, but I do remember carrying it with me long after our studies were complete.

In its pages, Apollo appeared as Phoebus Apollo. Phoebus, meaning “bright” or “radiant,” is an epithet: a descriptive phrase paired with a name. A title, revealing something essential: Apollo’s dual nature as master of music and poetry as well as the god of light, truth, and harmony.

I was inspired. Then, I forgot, but not completely.

****

My second chance to meet Apollo came many years later. Much to my surprise, during a road trip in Turkey, I noticed that my travel companions had added a stop near Miletus, which we would pass on our drive from the ancient city of Ephesus to Bodrum. A temple from the 6th century BCE, which was unfamiliar to me, called Didyma.

It was scorchingly hot that day, with a sky so painfully blue that I had to squint even through my sunglasses. The dusty corner of town was mostly deserted, save for an obscure ticket booth and a quiet café across the street, tempting me with its shade. But then the ruins came into view, towering in the background.

I forgot about finding shade. At the gate, time seemed to slip away. Broken columns lay scattered across the dry grass: some plain; others showing fluted edges, a few carved with intricate designs and winged griffins. Blocks of marble, dislodged and abandoned, were propped along the side of the path. Medusa heads appeared among them, seemingly alive in stone, their expressions fierce and hair twisted with serpents. Once positioned at the temple’s entrances, their purpose had been to protect the sacred grounds, guarding with unblinking eyes.

The temple itself was built on a platform, with sweeping tiers of open steps on each side. From ground level, the twelve rows were impressive enough, but looking up at that angle made even the remaining fragments of the Ionic columns appear almost impossibly massive. I blinked to make sure my eyes weren’t tricking me.

They weren’t. Measuring nearly seven feet in diameter, larger than most in the ancient world, these immense columns were built to awe and impress. I was humbled by their size even before I climbed the steps, as any visitor would’ve been two thousand years before.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that this colossal temple also housed an Oracle of Apollo, one of the two that were highly sought after in the ancient Greek world.

Oracles were sacred places where gods communicated with mortals through signs and rituals, guided by a priestess who was located in an adyton, a restricted inner space where she received and conveyed the messages from the gods. Not only were oracles used for personal concerns, but they were also consulted by important leaders before making major decisions. This was a political center, advising kings, generals, and city-states.

The adyton in Didyma was unique. It wasn’t isolated, as others were, but situated in the open courtyard. Here, the priestess drank from a spring and ingested Laurel leaves to enter a trance and deliver a prophecy. Known throughout the ancient world, the site bustled with visitors; archaeologists estimate that hundreds, possibly thousands, came each year. Now quiet after the passing of centuries, it was ours to wander in silence, still lingering with the questions once asked there.

Didyma, like most ancient sites, underwent several changes throughout history. Originally a shrine to a local Carian deity, it evolved into a temple dedicated to Apollo upon the arrival of the Greeks. Later, destroyed by the Persians, it was revived once again in 332 BCE by Alexander the Great, who initiated the construction we see today. In the third century CE, it morphed again, becoming a fortress as well as an oracle. Finally, when the oracles fell silent, it was converted into a church; the planned 124 columns never reaching completion.

Our visit was brief, and soon we were on our way to Bodrum, then to Istanbul, and finally home.

My curiosity, however, was reignited, and although I had been awed by the scale of Didyma’s grandeur, I was intrigued to discover Apollo’s quieter voice, the one of mysteries.

The next year found me at Delphi, at the foot of Mt Paranassus, walking on the path of the Sacred Way. I was there to visit the Temple of Apollo, following in the footsteps of ancient pilgrims who had traversed this path for two thousand years, bringing their questions to the oracle inside.

Delphi’s oracle of Apollo was different and older. Unlike Didyma, where prophecies were delivered in formal, polished statements, the responses here were elusive, cryptic, and mysterious. The priestess, known as the Pythia, sat in an isolated adyton located beneath the temple's floor. Entering a trance, which we now understand was induced by a mixture of gases released through intersecting fault lines beneath the surface, she would provide answers to the priest, who would then deliver to the waiting visitors outside.

These answers, often riddles and fragments, were difficult to interpret. One of the most famous came when King Croesus of Lydia asked about waging war. The Oracle replied: “If you cross the river, you will destroy a great empire.” Croesus marched forward, only to discover that the empire destroyed was his own.

This mystery still lingers today. The wisdom of Apollo, in part, encourages awareness. The phrase ’Know Thyself’ was carved into the temple wall as a reminder that we are often biased toward the answers we want. True wisdom asks for balance between what we hope to hear and what we are willing to see.

I carried a question that day, up the dusty trail in the heat. Past the treasuries, small buildings that once housed offerings from city-states and kingdoms. Past carved blocks, some etched with the names of those once granted freedom here. Past the triple-coiled, bronzed, serpentine column, now a replica; its original relocated to Istanbul in 332 CE by the Roman Emperor. Replica or not, its legacy endures; a reminder of Greece’s ancient victory over Persia.

My job as a pilot was in question at the time I walked that path. The job hadn’t completely left me; I had left it as well. COVID had come along, and during my time away from flying, I somehow managed to slip further away unnoticed. Eventually, I found myself in a place where I questioned whether I would return at all. I had become so removed from the airline life that perhaps, I wondered, it was best to move on. Maybe my time there was over, and that chapter had quietly ended while I was looking the other direction.

Standing in front of the temple ruins, I couldn’t help but casually ask Apollo’s advice. Much to my surprise, I got a funny answer, of sorts. Slow down. Experience more.

Surprised, I continued my walk. I can’t resist anything related to ancient history and although time was short, I had intended to continue on the path. Further up the mountainside were additional structures: an ancient theater and stadium, which had been the site of the Pythian Games. I would have to rush, however, to make it up and back before my group left. I had just enough time, but I needed to get going.

However, now startled and amused, I contemplated the suggestion. After all, I did ask. And as much as I wanted to continue up the trail in haste, that hint of guidance could be timely. Somewhat reluctantly, I abandoned my race to the top and sat down instead, taking a slow look around.

Before me, the sanctuary ruins spread out like a postcard. From my vantage point, I could see each portion of the temple, the pronaos, the porch area just behind the columns where visitors would wait with anticipation next to carved inscriptions. Further inside, the central area where the bronze statue of Apollo once stood, larger than life. Behind, I could even see the spot above where the Pythia would sit, isolated and removed, on the three-legged, raised stool. In front of me, history began to come alive.

Behind the temple ruins, dramatically rising limestone cliffs dominated the landscape. Known as the Shining Rocks for their ability to catch the sunlight’s glare, these impressive formations have inspired writers since antiquity, including Strabo and Plutarch. In the distance, I could see the deep, forested valley extending towards the sea, tracing the pathway that ancient pilgrims would have followed to this site.

Slow down, indeed. Worthy advice after all.

Months later, I found myself on the island of Delos, Apollo’s ancient birthplace. Sacred for centuries and its first temples raised in the 8th century BCE, the island still carries the weight of its myth. Temples once stood everywhere, including three to Apollo, others dedicated to both Greek and foreign gods, as well as a Jewish synagogue; a reminder that Delos was as much an international community as a spiritual one. An ancient theater and a marketplace stood among the ruins, along with the Terrace of the Lions, which once majestically faced the Sacred Lake where Apollo was born. As many as twelve crouching lions once stood guard; today only five remain.

It was spring, wildflowers blooming among the fallen columns. Standing on the path, gazing towards the sea, I sent a question out to Apollo once again: Where do I go from here?

There were no obvious replies that day.

Still, I can’t help but wonder, how would Apollo answer? In my funny little world balanced between ancient history and modern-day myth, he could very well answer after all. If I had to guess, perhaps his reply would’ve sounded a bit like this, and it might just be something for us all.

The answer is, of course, forward.

But quieter this time. Take the peace you have found with you. Be slow, drink wine, and experience the joy of just being still. In the calm, you will begin to see the magic.

Go quietly but with strength, for you have a contribution to the world that is not yet finished. Laugh and bring laughter to places that have forgotten its sound. Be afraid and embrace that fear, for it is an experience we all share. Remember that joy lies in the smallest of moments, for they are the most authentic. Embrace peace, for it is the only true path to the safety that every being craves. These are the experiences you must carry with you into the most unlikely places. And this is the pathway to those places.

For a visual companion to this essay, explore the photo gallery here.

Finding Apollo: Images from Didyma, Delphi & Delos

This gallery is a visual companion to: Finding Apollo, Oracle to Birthplace, Didyma, Delphi & Delos.

Explore the full essay here:

My flying partner’s drink menu sat closed on the table, untouched. It was late afternoon, and we had gathered at a rooftop terrace, a quiet moment to unwind after the long flight.

It has often been said, “All roads lead to Rome,” which most certainly applied in this case. Our flight path from the West Coast of the United States took us far to the north, arcing high across the northern Atlantic and crossing many invisible roads along the way.

There are roads in the air, not visible to the eye but carefully constructed of waypoints and intersections. Traffic is sequenced precisely along these routes, called airways or, over the ocean, called ‘tracks’, and nearly 2,000 flights a day cross the Atlantic en route to Europe.

Because we departed from the West Coast, our route took us farther north than the previously plotted ocean-crossing tracks, creating a unique path to our destination. Over Canada, at 35,000 feet. North of Hudson Bay, crossing the tip of Greenland, on to Iceland, and a brief flirtation with the Faroe Islands. Crossing the coastline of the European continent above the Netherlands, we clip Germany and catch the light over the Swiss Alps before finally entering Italian airspace.

One of the many things I love about this flight is how the accents shift with the radio frequencies along the way. Canadian at first, still reminiscent of home. Then, hours later, Scottish. Then English. A welcoming bonjour from the French, and finally, a familiar, vibrant ciao! from the Italian controllers. They, too, know how far we have come. It has been eleven hours, and we are almost there.

A while later, once again on the ground, having passed through customs and arrived at the hotel via the crew van, we take a quick break and agree on a time to meet for an afternoon drink.

I don’t usually have a drink while on the road, but today is a perfect afternoon: sunny, warm, a slight breeze, rooftop bars everywhere. After the disciplined precision of our flight, Rome feels like stepping into another kind of time, one where I can slow down, sip something cool, and take in the view. I’ve already watched the world from high above today, but this particular view carries no responsibility; it asks only that I choose a beverage and settle the bill.

It’s late in the afternoon, but we’ve arrived before the sunset crowds and are enjoying our choice of tables in the quiet. Three of us are here; the fourth will join us later for dinner. For now, two of us focus on the menu, reviewing the list of unique Italian drinks, occasionally asking, “What is Campari?” or “What does sambuca taste like?”

Still, our other flying partner’s menu remained unopened. “What are you having?” I asked, nodding toward it.

He answered without hesitation. “Negroni.” Catching my quizzical expression, he continued. “It makes me feel like I’m in Rome.”

Ah. I get it.

Rome is timeless, eternal, and each of us captures that in our own way. Little rituals, reminders that we’re not just passing through another city, another hotel room.

For some crewmembers, it’s a stroll through an old neighborhood or a perfect espresso. Others prefer a favorite plate of pasta or a glass of wine.

For me, it’s always a ruin. Any ruin will do; a quick glimpse of a lone column, a few scattered marble blocks, or a neglected corner of the Forum. Perhaps a brief walk through a medieval estate turned public garden, where weathered statues crumble next to overgrown stone structures. These moments remind me I’ve been here, that I’ve stepped outside of schedules and checklists, even if only briefly. Rome inspires a touch of romance in all of us regardless of how limited our time is.

The following morning, jetlagged and bleary, I’m up early, eager to catch the city before it awakens. There isn’t much time before I leave, but if I move quickly, I have time to visit the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, a 16th-century baroque church, known for its Caravaggio paintings.

The city is already busy, streetside tables crowded with early breakfasters as I pass. I continue down the hill, crossing the road, skirting construction barriers, passing our cafe from the evening before. At the corner, I’m distracted, drawn to the narrow street on my right which leads to the Spanish Steps. I can even see the bell tower of the Trinità dei Monti. Surely, I can squeeze in this quick detour.

Down the side street I go, surrounded by centuries-old buildings, cracked shutters, and flowering balconies. Scooters rattle past; voices drift from open shops; a few pedestrians wander into the street. Perfume lingers in the air, heels click against cobblestones as a young woman hurries past me on her way to work. Lost once again in Rome’s timelessness, I just want to see everything at once.

To my surprise, the Spanish Steps are closed. I pause at the stone railing, taking in the view, then continue down an alternate side alley. Uncertain of the detour, I feel time slipping by. I’ve set an alarm - two, actually - to ensure I’m back at the hotel on time; my job means the world of structure is never far away.

A wrong turn and a quick glance at my map show I’m only two blocks from the Pantheon. Why not? I’m so close. A brief stop at this iconic, ancient structure will, like my flying partner’s Negroni, remind me I am in Rome.

The plaza is already busy, and I take a brief pause. Even in a crowded area, the elegant, ancient columns are a sight to behold. However, time is now running short, so I quicken my pace, passing a 16th‑century palace, now a government office. A uniformed guard, nonchalant and unhurried, leans on a barrier as he lights a cigarette. He glances up, meets my eyes, and with a casual gesture, motions me around. A trace of acrid smoke drifts by as I cross to the other side, and he turns back to the cluster of tourists.

Finally arriving at the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, I’m struck by how subtle the facade appears. Inside, though, it’s anything but. The space is quiet, just a few tourists, leaving me room to wander. Gleaming marble tiles lead into the sanctuary before me. At the far end, an elaborately decorated altar glows with gold inlay, adorned with fresh flowers. As I approach, I can even catch a hint of their fragrance lingering in the still air.

Above, the painting is staggering with its deep, rich colors and flowing movement framed in gold, echoing the curve of the nave. It seems to rise into the dome itself, with its coffered hexagons carved into detailed rosettes. The Assumption of the Virgin Mary, by Francesco Bassano the Younger.

My first alarm vibrates: a warning that it’s nearly time to head back. I snap a photo, then turn left toward the Contarini Chapel; one of ten, five on each side, lining the aisles. After all of my detours and meanderings, I pause for one final moment to take in what brought me here in the first place: Caravaggio’s three scenes from the life of Saint Matthew.

Regretfully, I turn to leave and as I step outside again, the cool darkness of the church gives way to blinding sunlight. My second alarm vibrates, and I remind myself that these quick overnights are what I call “tastings”. A chance, a glimpse, a list for later, when time is more abundant. Rome is timeless; it will wait.

A handsome young man leans out the window of a passing car, waving exuberantly as he tries to catch the attention of three young women walking along the sidewalk. They glance up, but before they can react, he’s gone.

I smile. They are young, they are vibrant, and this is Rome.

It’s a timeless scene, and as I move through the streets of Rome, I can almost feel their youthfulness myself. The flight home will be different: precisely timed, structured, filled with checklists, clearances, and accented instructions paving the way across the sky. But for now, in this fleeting moment, Rome’s timelessness becomes mine to share as well.

For a visual companion to this essay, explore the photo gallery:

A Timeless City: Images from the Streets of Rome