You can also listen to an audio version of this newsletter — you’ll find a little bit of bonus content.

This week I’m spending a few days in our other home, our moveable home that spends many Spring and Autumn days parked alongside the Similkameen River, about an hour’s drive from our immoveable home.

Our motorhome is nearly 20 years old. It’s in excellent condition (my husband is a very meticulous maintainer of things). Our motorhome is still fully capable of proper road trips. But fuel prices have lessened our desire to travel far in this gas-guzzler.

We’ve done many long road trips throughout western Canada and the United States, moving daily from place to place. And now, we’re just happy to sit… by the river, sustained by our tiny home on wheels.

As I write this I’m enjoying the sound of the Similkameen rushing past. We’re in freshet — the period of time when snow melt and sometimes rain fills our rivers and our creeks.

In flood years, the water undercuts banks and rips out trees. We’ve watched these campsites along this river transform or disappear over the decades. Nothing stays the same.

When we return in the fall, the water will have fallen. There will be places in this river where you can safely walk across. On particularly hot September days you can sit in the middle of the river to cool off. Or carry your camp chair to the other side to find shade.

What is it like in July and August? One of the best things about retirement is that you can camp whenever you want, and leave the hottest times of the year to those restricted by the school calendar. It can be way too hot to camp comfortably in the summer months here. And I don’t consider running the generator so that we can run the air conditioning camping. We can sit inside in the AC at home. 1

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Solo camping while married

Life by the river, for me, means lots of walking, lots of reading, and lots of quiet contemplation. 2 And the occasional unintended nap. I love it – for about 3 days. Then I’m ready to move on.

My husband also brings his bike for long rides, a laptop filled with downloaded movies, and his Steam Deck for video games. He’s been known to stay put here for 10 days or more — as long as the water tank provides.

I’m happy to drive out for the time I like, and then I head back home. This works for us.

In a way, our method of camping was a testing ground for our new way of travelling: I travel when I want to, he joins if he wants to.

‘Things’ I missed while solo travelling

I’ve been thinking a lot about the differences between couples who need to be together, and those who are fine with being apart. Talking about being a solo traveller while being married has engendered lots of conversation on this topic.

It was mentioned in a comment on my last post about returning home and the benefits of home that I didn’t list my husband as one of the ‘things’ I missed. And I felt an immediate need to correct the omission.

Except, I can’t. I want my husband to live a happy and content life doing the things that matter to him. And while I was travelling for 2 months, that is what he was doing. We communicated regularly, some times more effectively than we do when we see each other every day, all day.

Would he have been happy and content and doing the things that matter to him if he had travelled with me? No.

I’m very fortunate to have a comfortable, stable relationship that ticks along whether we are in the same place or not. In my mind, strangely, my husband, or my relationship with my husband, wasn’t connected to my return to my house, or my home. It stands alone.

From camping to marriage to choosing the life you want

So how did a piece about our second home by the river become a treatise on my particular marriage? Who knows. Blame the sound of the rushing water as the catalyst for my wandering thoughts.

I’ve got one more day of this most contemplative way of living before I return to ‘civilization’ and an internet connection, so that I can post this wandering, meandering missive to you.

I do have to say, returning to my initial topic, that one of the best parts of my time by the river is the pure simplicity of it. Life is reduced to the books I’ve brought with me, the podcasts I’ve already downloaded, the knitting projects that I packed, and the paths my feet can take me.

It’s a beautiful, minimalist, stripped back life where just sitting outside listening to the birds counts as meaningful activity. And sometimes there is a campfire. Perfection.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Home base is in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Before I go….

I want to acknowledge of OCD Travel who shared a quote from last week’s post called Part 3: Returning.

Thank you Annie for sharing my writing with your subscribers and followers.

Did you miss my 3 part series about solo travel?

This is the third in a three part series analyzing my experience with solo travel, my thoughts on solo travel as a married person, and my ambivalence about returning to regular life.

Part 1: Was that really solo travel?

Part 2: Travelling solo while married

You can also listen, if you don’t mind hearing the neighbour’s dog out for his early morning bark.

Slipping back into your favourite chair?

I have to wonder. Do people usually just sink back into their daily lives, as soon as they’ve unpacked their suitcases and had a decent night’s sleep?

Or are they like me? I always struggle with getting back into the groove, particularly now that I don’t have a job that immediately takes up all the oxygen.

I’ve been home for 3 weeks, but my mind is still far away, recalling the adventures, remembering the streets of my neighbourhood, and thinking about what I would do if I went back. I’m still not fully present here; I’ve left some part of myself behind.

Over the last 3 weeks I’ve thought a lot about the advantages and disadvantages of travel vs. staying at home. I think it is important to document these things honestly. I’m prone to believing that life is always better on the road, and that I’m always happiest when I travel. Of course, this isn’t entirely true. It’s not all rainbows and roses.

So I’m going to try to focus on the best parts of being home. At least for now.

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I love to read. I always have a book on the go, often I have many books, in multiple formats, on the go. I am surrounded by stacks of books from the library, and from my own collection. Reading is a huge part of my life.

But often the habit of reading diminishes when I’m away from home. While I was in Perú I read only one book – and it was specific to an archeological site I was visiting. I did not finish a single book in the entire month of April! The book I was reading in Mexico (the first two weeks of my 2 months away) remains unfinished.

Since I’ve been home, I’ve been immersed in books. I’m like a drunken sailor with fiction, non-fiction, ‘real’ books, and audiobooks – everything on the go, all at once. I’m so happy to be back to reading!

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Since I’ve been home I’ve had lots of time with family. All the kids were home for Mother’s Day, and I took a short road trip with my sons last week. After 6 weeks of living a very solitary life, it was a bit overwhelming, but also fantastic to have everyone here.

I’m very fortunate to be close to my kids, and to have them make the effort to visit. We spent time on the water and playing games. There was lots of horseplay and silliness. I’m very lucky to have them.

Since I’ve been home, my diet has improved drastically. I’m back in the routine of regular and balanced meals, something I always neglect when I’m on my own. I always swear that I will do better, but in the end I devolve to the most basic of meals and a multi-vitamin.

Since I’ve been home, I’ve relaunched an old creative pursuit. My Peruvian guide, Joaquín, when he heard that I used to be a piano teacher, challenged me to take up the piano again. I’ve not played seriously for 20 years. My piano sits neglected unless my son comes home to play it.

This week, I’ve pulled out some of my favourite pieces, and I’m determined to get a few of them back to performance standard. Brahms, anyone?

I’m loving the immersive experience of practicing that was once such a big part of my life. Similar to when I draw or paint, an hour just disappears in a flash, as I’ve fallen completely into the zone.

But I’m also finding that the music makes me moody and emotional. It brings everything very close to the surface. I feel a bit like a teenager again, overwhelmed and filled with angst. This is part of the musician’s life that I had forgotten; the constant vibration that transmits the deepest longings of my heart. I’m not sure I can take it.

These are the things that might be better when I’m home. I’m willing to acknowledge that.

But here are the things that I miss most now that I am home.

I miss the energy and chaos of the streets of Cuzco. I can’t really explain it, although I did write about it in the piece ‘On the street where I live’. I walked for hours every day, dodging buses and cars as I crossed the busy streets, and moving through the crowds on sidewalks and squares. So different from my quiet Okanagan town, I adored the sounds, smells and sights of the city streets.

I miss bumping up against history at every turn; running my hand along the Incan stonework, climbing the ancient steps, and spending my days in places that hold so many stories.

I miss being surrounded by things I did not understand, questioning everything, and having to make extra effort to accomplish the most mundane of tasks. I loved the friction, confusion, and newness that filled every day.

I miss the adventures, the knowing that I would see something I had never seen before. The drives through the countryside, the altitude (even when I struggled to keep going), the incredible scenery. The sense of accomplishment that came with doing hard things.

I miss sitting on rocks in amazing places, eating bits of food shared from our packs. Choclo (Peruvian corn) purchased from a woman on the side of the highway, almonds, leftover quinoa tabbuleh, boiled eggs. Enough to fuel the next leg of our journey.

And then Joaquín would jump up and say ‘let’s go!’ It was always ‘let’s go!’

On the street where I lived

I miss pretending that this was, in fact, the street where I lived. I miss the feeling that I actually lived there; that I belonged there. I miss the feeling, as we drove back into the city after a great adventure, that we were driving back into MY neighbourhood.

Home is great – of course it is. I’m so very fortunate to live in ease and comfort, with time and resources to explore the world. I am the luckiest of humans. I should be entirely satisfied.

But I’d climb back on a plane tomorrow for the chance at another Andean adventure. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

They say ‘home is where the heart is’. At least a bit of my heart is still in Cuzco.

Here are some very nice things readers have said in response to the rest of this series:

Thank you . , , and , plus all the other commenters for sharing your thoughts.

I hope everyone will keep commenting and discussing. We are learning from each other.

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JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Based in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can find me at Jumble of Sea Glass

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

This is the second in a three part series analyzing my experience with solo travel, my thoughts on solo travel as a married person (homage to ’s Married Solo, and my experience with returning to regular life.

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Travelling solo, while married

For the last 28 years, with the exception of travel for work, all of my travel has been with other family members with only one exception; the 2 weeks I spent on my own, in 2012, visiting London and Paris.

That changed this year when I decided to spend 6 weeks, on my own, in Cuzco, Perú.

I’ll be honest. When I got married 28 years ago, I imagined that my retirement would involve lots of travel with my husband. In fact, I kind of thought we might even decide to live internationally, even before we retired.

In the end, we did travel quite a bit before our youngest started high school. We spent summers in Europe, and generally found somewhere warm to go midwinter, for at least a month each year.

Things got a bit more complicated as our youngest’s schedule became more restricted, and then the pandemic shut down all plans for travel. We just fell out of the habit for a while.

In 2022, I retired and we moved to our current location in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. We settled into the right house in the right place, in the right circumstances. Everything was as we wanted it.

Until I started to get that itch to return to travel.

I’m the one with wanderlust

It was always me. I was always the instigator. I was always looking towards our next big adventure.

My husband was a good sport. I’d drag him away from home for months at a time, but honestly he was always happiest to just stay put. And once we were settled in our new forever home, his attachment to the comforts of home became even more intense.

My wanderlust was increasing, as was my sense of the shortness of life. There was so much I wanted to do and see.

Now that I had no restrictions on my schedule, I just wanted to go. In my mid-fifties, I felt like these were my best years for adventure. I had no idea what the future would hold. I felt like if I didn’t go now, I might not get another chance.

Was solo travel my only option?

I started to think that the best solution to my travel conundrum was to experiment with solo travel. I knew plenty of people who had travel interests that differed from their partners, and chose to travel on their own or with others. I’ve also subscribed to the newsletters of many solo travellers on Substack,1 and been inspired by their choices to pursue adventures on their own.

I also follow many couples, primarily full-time nomads, on Substack, so my feed is filled with the stories of people travelling all over the world in pairs. One couple I follow are Chris and Steve of EatWalkLearn. They have a YouTube channel as well as Chris’ Substack, and I’ve enjoyed their adventures for a few months now. 2

Not long into my time (alone) in Perú, Chris and Steve started posting about their one month experiment, after years of 365/24/7 nomadic life, with travelling alone.

Chris and Steve were taking 30 days to try what called ‘Married Solo’. They went their separate ways, and shared their experiences of solo travel online.

Married Solo, which I was also experiencing, is what I want to talk about today. (I know – that was quite the lead up. Thanks for hanging in this long.)

My thanks to Chris and Steve for this concept, this prompt, and their candid sharing about their experiences.

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So here’s the question:

What’s it like to travel solo, leaving your partner at home?

I was very hesitant to suggest that I wanted to solo travel. While my husband is always accepting of whatever I want to do, I was still anxious about admitting that I wasn’t satisfied with staying home, or with minimal travel. I wanted more, but was initially afraid to say it. It felt like I was being ungrateful and demanding. Hadn’t we just travelled to Antarctica?

I also knew that I wanted to travel slowly. I wanted to settle in and stay a while. That meant that I would be gone for 2 months, leaving all my family responsibilities to my husband. This felt like I was being unfair. Like I was putting my own desires ahead of everyone else’s.

So often as women we are socialized to keep other’s needs at the top of the list. We tend to view ourselves as indispensable. How will everyone cope without us?

It was difficult to choose myself over others. It was hard to be clear and say ‘I am going to do this’. I imagined that I would get negative reactions, that I would be seen as selfish.

Instead, my husband just said okay. The family members that rely on me were bemused by my desire, but entirely supportive. Friends admired my choice.

I was elated. Ready for a new adventure. Filled with expectation.

I’m going. But now what?

And then the dread set in. What was I doing? Did I make the right choice? Was I putting my relationships in jeopardy?

Would I hate travelling on my own? Would I be lonely or sad? Would I have regrets?

Why couldn’t I just be happy with all that I had at home?

These questions and fears plagued me, but I knew I had to go. I had to try.

What have I learned about life, long-term marriage, and my need for travel adventure?

Connection

I think it’s important to acknowledge that there are positives and negatives to everything. Nothing is black and white. I’m happy to report that our relationship is strong enough to withstand an entirely optional two month absence.3

We’ve always been pretty independent. We do function fine on our own.

While I was away, we regularly spoke about our days on FaceTime and by text. And I sent pictures of my adventures. This kept us connected, but also left lots to talk about when I got home.

Finding your own rhythm

Travelling alone opens up a lot of space to re-examine your daily choices. You can’t just follow someone else’s rhythm – you have to choose your own.

I was interested in hearing Chris say that even though she and Steve give each other lots of space and that they both feel able to choose their activities independently, the very fact they are together means that Chris is constantly aware of, and at least partly focussed on, making sure sure that things are working for Steve.

I may be adding my own layer of interpretation to Chris’ comments, but I feel this too. Whenever I spend large amounts of time with others, I take on a sense of responsibility for their happiness and well-being. Just focussing on looking after myself is a strange new experience.

Parenting and partnering

As I write these sentences, it is Mother’s Day. I’ve been a parent for 38 years. My husband and I have been married for 27 years. That’s a lot of my life spent focussing on the physical and mental well-being of others.

I hold no claim to being selfless or even being an overly conscientious parent and partner, but still there is that constant, low-level hum of awareness of the needs of those around me, and what I could be doing (or not doing) to cater to them.

Also, this Mothers Day, my house and day are full with all three children, as well as my parents. This weekend, there have been very few quiet moments.

So reflecting on my 6 weeks of solo travel is a real contrast with my current situation.

Honouring my need for adventure

In the end, I would say that my thoughts on ‘Married Solo’, as a concept are this:

For now, having time to pursue the things I want to do on my own actually provides a richness of experience to my relationship. Long-term couples do not pass through life always seeking exactly the same things. Interests and abilities shift and change.

I know there are many couples who continue in lock step throughout their retirement, and I don’t begrudge them. Would it be simpler and easier if my partner and I wanted exactly the same things from life? I suppose.

But that isn’t the case, and that’s just fine. I’m going to pursue my travel interests to the fullest extent possible, and my husband will hold down the fort. That’s what my successful partnership looks like right now.

What about you?

I’m hearing more and more stories of people who are doing the same thing – travelling solo while married. I wonder if you are one of them. Let me know in the comments.

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JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Based in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass, most Sundays for more random musings of a non-travel nature. I’d love to see you there.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

This is the first in a three part series analyzing my experience with solo travel, my thoughts on solo travel as a married person (homage to ’s Married Solo1), and my experience with returning to regular life.

You can find Part 2: Travelling Solo while Married here.

Was that really solo travel?

About 6 months ago, I realized, definitively, that my interest in travel was never going to sync with my partner’s.

I wanted to travel farther, more often, and for longer than he did. I knew I could insist, and he would comply, to some degree, but that he wouldn’t really be happy. And I knew that staying home, particularly at my stage of life, wasn’t going to make me happy either.

So after a great deal of soulsearching I decided that I was going to try solo travel. I would see if this was the right compromise for me at this time in my life.

I bought a plane ticket, booked an Airbnb, and then started to fill in the details of my solo adventure.

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Is being an introvert a benefit?

As an introvert I spend lots of time each day on my own. I prefer it that way.

I always strived for work opportunities that included time in my office with the door closed against the world.

When I travel with family members, I’m always the first to break – I need to go for a walk by myself, or I offer to go to the grocery store (by myself, of course), just to have time to get my head on straight.

I thrive on alone time.

But I also thrive on that need for alone time. I’ve discovered that without that increasing sense of overwhelm that comes each day from being around and interacting with others, I lose a key aspect of my own internal rhythm. Riding that wave of too much interaction is an important timekeeper, an actual metronome, of the ticking clock of my day.

What happens when it’s just me, with no pressure to socialize, and I can fully wallow in my anti-social tendencies? Actually, it’s not good. 2

I lose all my natural rhythms. Eating, sleeping, exercising, maintaining. All the regular activities that keep life on track melt away. I lose organization, motivation and balance. I completely lose my sense of myself. I discovered that there is very little ‘there’ there. I find the pressures of social interactions are actually the guardrails that keep things moving in the right direction.

So why on earth would I contemplate leaving it all behind so I could go to a foreign country without any of the scaffolding that keeps me functioning?

Sounds like a pretty big risk.

I still need to travel

In the end, my desire for travel was stronger than my fear, and I decided that the only way to find if solo travel was an option for me was to try it.

Spoiler alert: the jury is still out. Here’s what actually happened.

I set 3 intentions for myself:

1. I wanted to test slow travel, and solo travel

2. I wanted a creative retreat

3. I was seeking adventure, and I wanted to live outside of the tourist zone.

First, I was pretty sure that slow travel was for me. We’d travelled slow for years, staying 2 - 4 weeks at a time in one place. This trip stretched it to 6 weeks. But how would I manage on my own?

Second, with so much time available to me, and with only my own brain for company, I needed something very specific to focus on.

For the last 10 months, I’ve been writing about what I refer to as The Travel Paradox (looking closely at the contradictions, dilemmas and ideological conundrums that arise from travelling with your eyes wide open), and I wanted to see if I could expand this concept into a book proposal. I had a fairly clear idea about how I could concretize the thesis, and build it into a unique offering that might interest a publisher.

I also wanted to have time to sketch and paint, and write poetry, and read. I felt like this would be the perfect opportunity to really expand into all my creative urges.

And, I wanted more adventures. I wanted to see more of a place I loved and to learn more about its history and its culture. I reached out to the guide who had been with us the last time we were in Perú to see if he was available. He said yes.

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The benefits of a guide

When I arrived in Cuzco, I fully expected that I would be able to book Joaquín for a fair bit of time in the first few weeks, but that as we got into April he would become less and less available. By April, I imagined there would only be a smattering of days that he would be available. I figured that April would be when I’d really test drive my ability to manage entirely on my own. But that isn’t what happened.

By my reckoning, tourism in Cuzco increased in April, but not dramatically. There were more tourists in the Plaza de Armas, but it wasn’t crowded. There were visitors in the restaurants, but nothing seemed full. Visiting a tourist site in the middle of the day seemed manageable. The hoards had not yet arrived.

The consequences for me? Joaquín was far more available than we had originally imagined, to take me to more and more obscure sites farther and farther out of the city.3 And through this quirk of tourist economy fate, my solo adventure became a regular rendezvous with someone who I was getting to know better, over miles and miles both by car and on foot.

How did this qualify as solo travel? I had wandered way off my expected path.

Suddenly all the pitfalls I had worried would beset my attempt at travelling alone were eliminated by the protection, companionship, and comfort of my own driver and guide.

So what have I learned from my 6 week experiment?

1. I can manage the actual travel part: the flights, immigration, ground transportation, etc. Since I always took the lead when travelling with family, I have lots of experience.

2. I can spend days on my own without too much trouble. And now that it is so easy to chat by video call with family its almost like you never left.

3. Eating is still a challenge. I just don’t care enough to really put in the effort to cook for myself. I don’t enjoy restaurants on my own, and in Perú, street food wasn’t really a safe option for me. I missed out on a lot. I just took a multi-vitamin to make sure scurvy didn’t become an issue.

4. I am quite able to amuse myself with very little. I am happy enough just wandering around and watching the world go by. I need very little to entertain myself. This is an excellent trait for getting the most out of solo travel.

5. I do tend to connect too strongly with people when I’m away from my regular life. Although I don’t think of myself as a lonely person, I do find I can be quite unguarded with people when they show any interest in me. While this can result in very nice unexpected conversations, it can also put you in a vulnerable place. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the balance right.

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Am I ready to REALLY solo travel?

So now I’m asking myself, could I get on a plane and spend 3 weeks in Japan, by myself? Could I walk a camino on my own? Have I learned enough about myself and developed enough skill to be successful and fulfilled as a solo traveller? Or did I just fall immediately into the trap of comfort and ease?

Am I any further ahead in understanding who I am or what I want? I’m not really sure.

So the question remains: Was that really solo travel? Maybe I was just pretending at being independent. Maybe I don’t actually have what it takes to make it on my own.

I still don’t know, because I had Joaquín.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Home base is the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

In April of 2025, I got on an airplane from Cuzco to Lima, Perú. As I was walking into the airport, I turned to my husband and said, ‘I want to do it all over again. I’m not ready to go.’

Those words turned out to be prophetic. I could not get them out of my mind. I clearly wasn’t ready to go. I was going to do it all over again.

Eleven months later, I landed back in Cuzco with a plan to stay 6 weeks. My goal was to see and experience as much as I could, spend time in creative retreat, and live like a local as much as was possible. It’s been one of the most incredible experiences of my life.

By the time you read this I’ll be on my way back home to Canada. I imagine the same thought will have lodged itself in my brain: I want to do it all over again. I’m not ready to go.

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I have visited many amazing places in the world. Some of my favourites include Iceland (5 weeks, staying both in Reykjavik and in a tiny fishing community), visiting the Antarctic Peninsula and the Falkland Islands, and Newfoundland (5 weeks all over Canada’s newest province, known as the Rock). I’d go back to any of these places in a heartbeat – but I’ve never felt a pull as strong as I feel for this part of Perú.

I’m starting to wonder if maybe this is my soulplace.

But wait. I’ve previously indicated my skepticism of the concept of soulmates, and by extension the concept of soulplaces.

Here’s what I wrote in September 2025.

Where is your soulplace?

From :

“I have a theory. Just as each of us has a soulmate we also have a soulplace. Your soulplace is where you know, just know you were meant to be.”

Excellent theory, Eric. One I’d like to unpack a bit.

Sorry – downer alert. I don’t actually believe that each of us has a soulmate, but I’m willing to play along in order to talk about soulplace – because maybe we do have a soulplace. I’m willing to go that far.

If you are still with me, and I haven’t bummed you out too much, let’s talk ‘soulplace’.

But let’s start with how we define ‘place’. Is it a landscape? Is it the land? Maybe it’s the view, the air, the flora and fauna? The way the air smells, the sounds, the weather? Or is it a perfect combination of all these things?

Or maybe it is actually a house, a family, a group of friends, the community? Maybe it’s more about people than place?

I ask all these questions because I truly don’t know.

In Eric’s piece1 he talks about people who are born in their soulplace, or discover it early in their lives. Others only find that place near the end of their lives.

I can say for certain that I was not born in my soulplace, nor have I yet lived in my soulplace. Sure, there are things I’ve loved about all the places I’ve lived, but my soul hasn’t really been involved.

What about the places I’ve travelled to? I must confess that I’m one of those travellers who often says ‘I could live here’, and my partner gives me that look that says ‘here we go again’. I’ve always wanted to live outside of Canada and I often fall in love with places that I visit.

The concept of the soulplace is, I think, monogamy. But I’m not ever going to find my ‘soulplace’ if I don’t get the opportunity to properly date a few places before I settle down. I’d definitely be willing to give that a try. It’s just that my partner’s ‘soulplace’ is where all his things are. He’s perfectly happy and content where he is.

For now, I’ll just be speed-dating places. Who knows what will happen.

So here I am on the tail end of a prolonged second date, and I’m actually considering going steady.2

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Why I’ve fallen hard for Cuzco and area

Cuzco has incredible street life which I’ve written about in 3 stories of the joyful cacophony of a life lived outdoors and On the street where I live. Everywhere you go there is something happening. The streets are filled with families and young lovers, well into the evening. They are full of the happy sounds of people living their lives outdoors.

Cuzco is a city that is filled with history. It is also surrounded by history, if you are willing to walk up a big hill to find it.

Cuzco is also surrounded by incredible countryside. You may want to take a bus or a taxi to the outskirts, but from there its all hillsides and streams, overlooks and less visited ruins.

Spending time in Cuzco means keeping your eyes open. Cars, buses, and pedestrians flow around you in a never-ending stream. And none of them are really paying any attention to you. If you are a small-town girl like me, walking down the street takes a lot more awareness than back home, but in a way, that’s what makes it invigorating. For me, it’s all a bit of a sport.

There are so many world famous archeological sites within a few hours drive of Cusco. And even more archeological sites that most people have never heard of, and few ever visit. You can find my list of well-known sites here, and my list of lesser known sites here.

The first couple of days in Cuzco, assuming you’ve come from a lower elevation, will slow you down and wear you out. It takes a bit to acclimatize; you have to take the altitude seriously. But for me, this extra difficulty actually made me feel stronger and prouder. With each hill, with each set of steps, with each extra kilometer that is so much more challenging than it would be at home, I felt a real sense of accomplishment. I love how this place pushes me.

Can I do it all over again?

No. I know you can never recreate any experience.

This trip was completely different from the first. And a third would be completely different from this one.

I know everything changes; nothing stays the same.

But I do wonder if there is enough of a connection here to bring me back. It still feels like this story has not yet ended. The book has not yet been fully written.

We will see what the next chapter brings.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently on a plane….

Home base is the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia of Canada

I’ve been in Cuzco for a month, and I have seen so many incredible things! I’ve revisited a number of places that I visited last year when I spent 3 weeks in Cuzco and the Sacred Valley. And I’ve had time to take in many, many more.

The 7 places I’m focussing on today are places that the average tourist does not get to. Either they do not have the time, or these are places that are not heavily promoted by tour companies.

You may need to open this email in your browser to see the whole thing.

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I’m having the most extraordinary experience! Of course, I have to acknowledge that my access to these places are made possible by my friend and guide Joaquín. I can’t thank him enough!

If you are planning a trip to Perú (and why wouldn’t you be?), I’d be happy to recommend him!

This post will be mostly pictures. Hopefully these pictures will be worth a thousand words — although, my son, who is an excellent photographer (and will soon be launching a Substack of his own) tells me that my Substack isn’t going to gain subscribers due to my photography. My Substack’s growth will have to depend on my words.

Well, son, I hope my ‘readers’ will forgive my substandard photography, as well as my lack of words in this post. Love you, Boo, despite your extreme honesty ;-) 1

At a loss for words

I had fully intended to write all about the places I have visited, but I have found myself unable to really articulate what I have seen. Many of these sites have engendered such deep feelings. Not mystical necessarily, but profoundly moving.

I’m so fortunate. Joaquín has been so patient with me. Over these weeks, we have spent many, many hours just sitting and observing; watching the world go by. Listening to the birds, enjoying the sound of the rushing water, feeling the breeze, and soaking in the beauty of the landscapes.

Thank you again, my friend.

Raqchi

We visited Raqchi on my second day at 3,300 meters elevation. Joaquín promised flat. It was. But he also coaxed me up to the lookout, which wore me out completely, but was worth every step.

Also known as the Temple of Wiracocha, it features a unique construction, with only the main wall remaining.

Tarawasi

This archeological site, not often visited, features beautiful Inca stonework, in perfect condition, on which an ancient hacienda, now in ruins, was built in colonial times.

The main wall includes numerous examples of flower formations in the stonework, as well as another platform containing 20 niches.

Located in a beautiful valley (although what valley in this area isn’t beautiful?).

Killarumiyoc

Incredible rock carvings, a fertility fountain, and the most breathtaking views. I could spend hours here.

And there wasn’t another soul around.

Pumamarca

Beautiful stucco covered ruins with excellent mountain views, not far from Ollantaytambo.

Ñaupaiglesia

First you get to walk up about a million Inca steps. And yes, Joaquín is enjoying my slow progress.

But every step is worth it. You climb up the side of the mountain, with the sound of the water rushing below you, overlooking the highway and the railroad tracks that take you back to Cuzco.

You are climbing through ornamental terraces, pausing occasionally to ‘enjoy the view’. As you get to the top and walk to the right, you suddenly see a massive pyramid-shaped cave. The cave has been modified into this perfect shape. In the entrance to the cave, as you turn the corner, you discover the most exquisite carved black rock. With each sweep of the eye, you see something different. Something equally remarkable.

The priest of this sacred site would have lived in this tiny shelter on the cliffside. I wanted to enter, but the door was so narrow I worried that if I got in, I wouldn’t get back out — similar to that story about Winnie Pooh.

This was the perfect place to ‘just be’; the steep valley amplified the sound of the running water below, and the view was absolutely breath-taking.

I could return to this place over and over.

Ankasmarka

This was the destination. I loved it. But I also loved the journey. The drive deep into the valley on our way to Ankasmarka was absolutely gorgeous. I think more people should take this drive, and see this place.

The whole hillside is covered with colcas, round stone structures used for food storage. Many have been rebuilt. We had the place to ourselves, and the weather was perfect.

As interesting as this ancient site is, the thing that mesmerized me the most was the height and the views. I’m not much of a mountain climber, and I’m pretty sure this is the highest I’d ever climbed. I felt like I was on top of the world.

Waqrapukara

I wish this was my photo. It isn’t. It was taken by my son when he visited Perú in 2023.

I also took a couple of pictures of Waqrapukara, but from a distance. I ran out of steam before I could get there. Turns out that the height beat out my previous record at Ankasmarka.

The hike in is at 4600 m, 1300 m higher than I was acclimatized to, and frankly the 7 kms in, and then the 7 kms out at that altitude kicked my butt.

But my view from a distance was also incredible — my photos just weren’t up to scratch. So thanks, Boo, for sharing this one with me.

You can see clearly that his photos are in a different league than mine.

I hope you’ve something here that might spark your interest.

I think I might be becoming an ambassador for Perú. You need to come and see it for yourself.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently based in Cuzco, Perú

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

In lieu of my usual Sunday offering of Jumble of Sea Glass, I’m bringing you a few pictures and thoughts on some of the places I’ve visited over the last month in Cuzco, Perú and the surrounding area. On Wednesday, you’ll receive an email featuring 6 amazing sites that most tourists don’t get to see.

I appreciate you letting me invade your inbox today. I hope you’ll enjoy hearing about my experiences.

On the tourist trail

After nearly a month in Cuzco, Perú, visiting many of the archeological wonders that surround me, I’m still mostly at a loss for words.

While I have written some about my experiences in the city of Cuzco,1 I’ve not yet captured, in writing, much about my time travelling to and visiting these sites.

I’ve been very fortunate to visit a number of places that most tourists do not get to, either because their time in Perú is limited, or because these places are off the beaten track. Of course, I have to acknowledge once again that my access to these places are made possible by my friend and guide, Joaquín. I can’t thank him enough!

If you are planning a trip to Perú (and why wouldn’t you be?), I’d be happy to recommend him!

Today, I’m going to share a few pictures of some of the places I’ve been that are on many traveller’s itineraries.2 Maybe you’ve already been; I’d love to hear your stories.

Watch your inbox on Wednesday for my ‘off the beaten track’ experiences.

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Pikillaqta

Pikillaqta was inhabited by the Wari people, and the site includes excavations of houses that still feature the original stucco walls. We mostly had the place to ourselves when we visited.

Pisac

Pisac is a regular stop for tourists visiting the Sacred Valley. It was our first archeological site visit last year, but I was still not acclimatized to the altitude, and we limited our explorations to the most easily accessible parts of this site.

On this visit we hiked to the Intiwatana, the most sacred section. As is common in the Andes, we experienced all weathers during our visit: sun, cloud, rain, and hail. Fortunately, we had chosen to stop for a snack in a shelter just before the hail began.

Saqsaywaman

I can’t imagine that too many people visit Cuzco without also visiting Saqsaywaman. Sadly, most don’t spend the time to explore the entire site. I’ve now been 3 times, and I could easily go again.

But do take a guide — this is true for all the Peruvian archeological sites, in my opinion. You will get so much more out of your visit as there is little signage, and almost no interpretive information provided.

Q’enqo, Puka Pukara and Tambomachay

Above Saqsaywaman you’ll find 3 sites included in the Boleto Turístico which are well worth seeing.

Q’enqo includes a Sacrifice Chamber which I have to say I found deeply disturbing. It is carved out of an underground chamber. I took no pictures. I can still feel a chill when I think about it.

Puka Pukara is a fort overlooking the Cusco valley and Tambomachay.

Tambomachay, known as the Inca’s Baths, features incredible stonework in a beautiful setting.

Chinchero

Lots of people visit Chinchero, famous for its textiles and ceramics. And at some point, visitors to this region may arrive at the new Chinchero airport, rather than landing in Cuzco.

If you visit the Chinchero Archeological Site, and wander a bit along the path, you might find this sacred rock. Alongside an overgrown stream, you’ll find these niches. Stand with your head in the carved out square, and the sound of the stream below you will echo with vibrations. A truly mystical experience.

But you have to know where to look. Thanks Joaquín!

Ollantaytambo

Ollantaytambo is the jumping off point to Machu Picchu, so its archeological site is likely on most visitors list. Without a doubt, the views from the top are amongst the most beautiful.

But don’t forget to wander throughout the complex. There is so much else to see. Sadly most of the tourists that venture beyond the main area did so on there own. I’m not sure they would have had any understanding of what they were actually seeing.

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Tipon

I think most tourists get to Tipon, but I noticed on my second visit that the bus or van loads of tourists moved pretty quickly through the site, catching only the basics of the place.

If you are a nerdy sort, I recommend that you track down Kenneth R. Wright’s book Tipon: Water Engineering Masterpiece of the Inca Empire before you go.

On our first visit to Tipon last year, we hiked a portion of the Inca Trail from Pukara to Tipon. This is a great way to arrive on the site. You also get to walk along an ancient canal.

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Coming soon….

My visits to Raqchi, Tarawasa, Killarumiyoc, Pumamarca, Ankasmarka, Waqrapukara.

Let me know if you’ve been to any of these 6 lesser-known sites.

Watch for The Travel Paradox in your inbox on Wednesday!

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently based in Cuzco, Perú

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

This is not what I expected when I launched this adventure into slow, solo travel in a place I couldn’t wait to return to.

Intrigued?

You can listen to this newsletter in audio, or read on…

Travelling without the Paradox

I have been here for 24 days. I have returned to Cuzco, Perú.

I am living quietly in a neighbourhood that is mostly devoid of tourists. I shop in the local supermarket and spend time in the nearby square. Most days I walk to, or through, the tourist centre, but I only minimally engage with tourist services. I have eaten no fancy meals in tourist restaurants. I have not ridden in a tourist van, nor stepped on to a tourist train.

I have had the tremendous good fortune of being able to visit the great archeological sites of this place with an extremely experienced guide who has become a friend. Joaquín is my protection against the tourist infrastructure, language barrier, and the usual frantic pace with which most tourists devour these destinations. He makes it possible for me to simply absorb these magical places; giving me the history, answering my questions, and allowing me to move at my own pace.

With Joaquín’s help, I have crafted a near perfect experience of this place, almost entirely free of all the aspects of travel that have previously perplexed me.

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This morning as I look back on these last 24 days, I am realizing that with this trip, I have eliminated many of the things that have previously left me swimming in the paradox: the dilemmas and ideological conundrums that have plagued my travel for so many years.1

For the last 10 months I have focused my writing on what I have termed the ‘travel paradox’.

I have written about many experiences. My discomfort with overly ingratiating service, my concerns about photographing strangers, of the pressure to see everything at a pace that doesn’t allow me to really experience things fully.

I’ve shared my thoughts about our visit to a Quechua village to learn about, and purchase, traditional weavings; about how much it overwhelmed me, but also left me unsure about whether our visit was actually the right thing to do.

I’ve written about my trepidations around visiting countries that have endured real hardship and violence, without coming to a full understanding of their experiences; of simply dropping in to visit the sights and the archeology, as if the land has only known peace.

I’ve written about my frustration with western society’s insistence on glorifying the white man in the story, and how sometimes local tourism boards play along with these fictions.

These conundrums are all part of the travel paradox story.

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My plan for this time in Perú

When I planned this six week trip back to Cuzco, I wanted 4 things.

1. I wanted to revisit a number of places that I had already been, now that I had spent more time learning the history and the culture, and I wanted to adventure to new places that most tourists don’t get to experience.

2. I wanted to have time to focus on creative pursuits in a place that would inspire me.

3. I wanted to live away from the tourist zone, away from tourist infrastructure, and, as much as possible, to live like a local.

4. I wanted to see if solo travel was for me, and to test if I could spend 6 weeks in a place on my own.

Although the jury is still out on whether or not this form of slow, solo travel is for me (see my most recent piece at Jumble of Sea Glass entitled Thoughts on legacy, and the promises we make to ourselves), I’m pretty confident that I have succeeded in my other 3 goals. But it has not awakened the intellectual and creative response that I had hoped and imagined.

I had imagined that this 6 week stay in Cuzco would continue to fill my head with questions about what is the right way to travel. I fully expected to have a notebook full of story ideas that would fill the electronic pages of The Travel Paradox for months to come. I was ready to head home perplexed and bewildered by my time here. But thus far, this has not happened.

I know it would be much better for my ‘brand’ if it did. It would be much more convenient to be able to say I’m even more mired in a paradox about what is the best way to be a visitor in another country. I’m not.

I’m actually comfortable here. I feel at home here. In some ways I feel like this might be a place I’ll want to return to.

The Travel Paradox still remains

I know all my original questions remain. That hasn’t changed. They are just not at the front of my mind right now.

I’m reminded of the words I wrote in a piece from November called the Quantity vs. Quality Debate:

“In my writing here I have often referred to my ‘life changing’ trip to Perú this spring. It was life-changing because it was there that I started to question how I was travelling and why I was travelling. That trip also made it clear to me that this is what I want to do with my life; I want to see and experience new things. I want to live without regret.

But here is the other thing that became clear to me. At least for now, travelling on the surface, doing the ‘touristy things’ is not for me. Skimming along without a deeper understanding does not feel meaningful to me.

Seeing the sights isn’t enough. Being able to say ‘I’ve been there’ isn’t enough.

I actually want to spend the time to learn, understand, listen and have my mind changed.

I’m taking a hard turn towards quality. I know this means that there are many, many places on my ‘list’ that I will not get to, and that’s okay. “

So maybe, for now, the questioning and soul-searching is abating. Maybe, it is because I’m in the right place, at the right time, in the right way. Maybe, I can just relax, turn off my overthinking brain, and enjoy the days I have left in this incredible place.

I know the questions will return when I get home. They always do.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently based in Cuzco, Perú

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

Do you prefer to listen? This week’s audio version includes a bonus story from one of my 5 top places.

For those of you who have been with The Travel Paradox for a while, you’ll know that I espouse a particular travel philosophy. I believe the best way to travel, and to live, is to have lots of time to ‘just be’.

You can find the links to my previous writing on this topic below.

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Just being

In a nutshell, just being is what it says on the tin. Taking the time to absorb what is around you. To observe deeply. To sit quietly and see what happens.

It’s not filling every moment with an activity. It’s leaving your phone in your pocket when you have a still moment. It’s choosing to do nothing while the world swirls around you.

And for me, it’s the absolute best way to travel.

This week, I’m going to share some of the spots I’ve returned to multiple times over the last few weeks here in Cuzco. These are mostly not tourist spots. They often are not even that scenic or attractive. But they have become my special spots to watch the world go by.

Parque Mariscal Gamarra

This street side park is just around the corner from my little studio. It is a winding path through raised beds of grass and flowers. It has clusters of benches throughout, and at many times of day, it is overflowing with people. It is shaded by eucalyptus trees, this cluster you can see from Saqsaywaman’s overlook. It is an oasis alongside one of Cuzco’s main thoroughfares. And I’ve been happy to be one of many who are there for a rest, or a think.

Plaza Túpac Amaru

I’m a regular visitor to Plaza Túpac Amaru. And every visit is slightly different. Last night, there were a few dancers (see 3 stories of the joyful cacophony of life lived outdoors), but no market stalls. Things were pretty quiet.

On Easter Sunday evening there was a large political rally with the plaza filled with a stage, massive screen, and people marching and carrying flags.

On Saturday there is a huge market, with everything you can possibly imagine available for sale.

I have become fascinated by this constantly revolving public space, and there is hardly a day that I don’t spend at least some time there.

I always take my notebook, because I never know what might spark my imagination.

Want to hear another story from my visits to Plaza Túpac Amaru? Check out the audio version of this newsletter.

In the shade of the Palacio de Justicia

This beautiful building on the Avenue El Sol provides shade to the benches that sit in front of it for part of the day, and I find that is a lovely spot to stop. It is just inside the tourist zone surrounding the incredibly popular (dare I say overrun) Plaza de Armas.

You can also sit on the steps if there are no shaded bench seats available.

Many tourists stop at the benches in front of the Coricancha, where there is no shade. My tip: walk another block or so to find the shade of this substantial building.

Why would you be looking for shade in a city that rarely gets warmer than 21 C? Cusco’s elevation (3,300 m) means the sun is very strong, and it feels much hotter on a sunny day than the stated temperature would imply.

Palacio de la Municipalidad Provincial del Cusco and Plaza Regocijo

If you are looking for shelter from impending rain, you could easily tuck under one of the many loggia that front the colonial structures surrounding the Plaza de Armas, but my favourite is a block over, on the Plaza Regocijo. I like to sit, leaning against one of the massive stone columns of the Palacio de la Municipalidad. I choose it because few other people do, and because it overlooks Plaza Regocijo, which to my mind is a much more attractive (and slightly less occupied) square.

The entrance to the building is often monitored by police officers of some type, and I do wonder if they think I’m a vagrant sitting there. And one time, while sheltering from the rain, I was treated to the incredible noise of a garbage truck, waiting for each individual person to carry their own garbage out of the municipal building to have it dumped into the back of the truck.

I happened to be on the phone with my son at the time the truck pulled up. It was playing incredibly loud music. At first I thought maybe it was election related. Nope. I eventually realized that the loud music was the signal for everyone to bring out their garbage.

I had to terminate the phone call due to loudness – either that, or go out in the rain.

Mirador de San Cristobal

It takes me about 1 hour to walk from my studio near the University to this viewpoint over Cusco. You walk straight up the hillside from the Plaza de Armas, an elevation gain of 200 m, almost entirely by stone steps. There are few who do this ascent without at least a somewhat raised heart rate, and the stairs are littered with tourists stopping to ‘take a picture’, or just sitting down to take a rest.

There are few tourists who have been in Cuzco long enough to acclimatize to the high elevation. They will feel every step to the top.

I often hear muttering – is it worth it?

For me it is. The first couple of times I did it, it was for the view, which was excellent. Now I do it because it is an excellent spot for people watching.

I usually tuck myself away in a shady corner, alongside the church, where you’d hardly notice me. I watch the tourists pile out of their buses, the people panting their way up the final set of stairs, the local women in traditional dress ready to get their picture taken. I listen to the guides explaining the stone work, the church, the landscape. I heard one tourist exclaim, I’m sure glad I have been working out or I wouldn’t have been able to make it! I hear you, brother.

Cusco is a city that requires some effort and adjustment. But, for me, it never disappoints.

Bring your hiking shoes, sunscreen, and more than a couple of days. Don’t forget your hat and plenty of water. Put your rain jacket in your pack, just in case. Get out of the tourist zone, and see what you discover.

My Just Be Trilogy: Just be, Maybe the best travel gift you can give yourself is time, and Why I slow travel.

Thanks for taking the time read The Travel Paradox. Taking a moment to like, share and comment helps to spread the word to others who might find this type of travel writing interesting. I very much appreciate every interaction.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently based in Cuzco, Perú

Home base is the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You may also be interested in my non-travel writing. You can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

I don’t have any photos to directly illustrate these stories.
I don’t take pictures of people who are not acting in a public capacity. If you are interested in reading more about this decision, check out the link below:
A Travel Paradox - photographing the locals.

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I visit Plaza Túpac Amaru almost every evening. I found it first when I was drawn by the sound of music, contradictory music blaring from multiple loud speakers. As I got closer, I discovered that the square was filled with many groups of dancers, practicing traditional dances. I found it fascinating and heart-warming. I vowed to return.

Here’s just one story that has been born of my experiences watching the dancers these past two weeks.

The Outsider

He was the outsider, the boy who wasn’t joining. A person unto himself.

In the corner of the seat, up against the edge. Seeing, but not participating. Was he watching under those hooded eyes? Were the headphones filled with an alternate sound; music against the cacophony of the square? Was the screen in front of him just a ruse? Was his heart actually with the dancers; the earnest young people who seemed so happy and free?

I did not see it then. I sat near him on that bench. I took out my notebook to write, to observe, to feel. I too was an outsider.

I was also watching under hooded eyes. I was feeling a longing to be included. Was my writing a ruse to cover my interest rather than a writer’s natural response to the world around them?

After 10 minutes or so my outsider companion got up and walked in front of me. I assumed he was bored, and was moving on.

A few minutes later I realized that he had actually just moved closer to the dancers. Two young men at the back, the older one teaching the younger one the steps.

Was I imagining the outsider’s interest? The headphones were no longer visible. The cell phone was no longer in his hand. Was there a look of longing on his face?

I looked away. Was I reading too much into a mundane scene? I must be.

Then he stepped forward. He said a few words to the older one: his body language betraying his nervousness. Shuffling feet, hand scratching the side of his face, as if everything depended on the teacher’s answer.

In a moment, the nervousness disappeared, and the two in the back of the group became three. A more experienced dancer teaching two young men these steps that must come from earlier times. It made me think.

In this short series of moments, a young boy had begun to step away from his role of outsider.

Will I see him dancing again this evening when I return to Plaza Túpac Amaru?

Will I even recognize him now that we are no longer outsiders together?

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It’s Holy Week. I can’t say I’ve ever observed Holy Week, and wasn’t really even aware of its significance until last year when we were in Cuzco. Here I am again, paying attention to the various holy days, and their observances in this most Catholic of nations.

Observing Palm Sunday

Leaving my place at 8 AM, it seems I have the city to myself. I’m here in the time of street cleaners and the earliest of street sellers, just setting up their wares.

As I walk towards the colonial centre, 20 minutes away, I see a woman carrying a palm frond. I am reminded that this is the beginning of Holy Week, a full week of processions, observances, and celebrations. This is the first of many.

As I get closer to the Plaza de Armas, things get busier. Not only will there be lots of tourist activity, despite it being just the very start of the tourist season, but also there will be masses gathered around the cathedral.

I had set out with the plan to be amongst the first visitors to the Museo Histórico Regional in the Casa Garcilaso, and I’m sure I’ll get there eventually. But first, let’s go see what is happening at the cathedral.

I find a perch along the side of the main square, and I pull out my notebook. Sitting so near the road, I am struck by the intensity of sound caused by vehicles travelling over the cobblestone. I gaze up the hillside to the Mirador de San Cristobal and I’m reminded of my promise to myself to walk from my studio near the University way up to this lookout over the city. Maybe tomorrow.

There is a curious mix of tourists and religious adherents in the Plaza today. Men in suits, mostly black, with sunglasses and cellphones. Women, also in black, in the most ridiculous shoes on cobblestones, acknowledging friends. Kids dressed in their Sunday best, and the most beautiful young men in police uniforms. All waiting. Waiting.

As I sit there quietly taking it all in, I feel like I have begun to shift slowly between worlds. Not a local. Not a tourist. I am becoming an observer. Just a set of eyes and ears. With a pen.

Back at Plaza Túpac Amaru later that day, I had another experience that really moved me. It affected me deeply, and left me with so many questions about how I have chosen to live my life.

Cacophony; or is it pride, joy, and pure connection?

I never really know what is going on. All I can do is feel. And my experience this evening actually brought me to tears.

I am overcome by the public dancing I often see here in the square.

I am completely devastated by tonight’s music being played in the streets.

In the Plaza Túpac Amaru, there is always light. This is where the dancers generally practice to recorded music, with each group of dancers’ loudspeaker blaring their own particular tunes. I find it amazing that each group can focus with so much going on, but they seem entranced.

Tonight, the regular dancers are not there. Or maybe they’ve already gone home. Tonight’s offerings are completely different.

Tonight there are bands playing under shelter, in the covered walkway in front of the station for the policía de turismo. You’ll also find the regular dancers in this spot when it rains. It is dark. The sound is amplified by hard surfaces. Maybe that is why these musicians have chosen it.

As I walk towards Plaza Túpac Amaru that Palm Sunday evening, I can see the square is mostly empty. But I can hear music, of a sort, from the other side. I’m curious to find out if it is recorded, or if it is live. I’m curious to find out why two distinct songs can be heard resonating from such a small area.

As I step around parked cars and a large bus I discover that there are two bands playing within less than a few hundred meters of each other. Each group of players is surrounded by their own set of dancers. Not the uniformly young dancers of the more organized groups. These women are dancers of all ages, doing the simplest of steps. But they seem transfixed by the motion, the rhythm and the act of dancing in unison with others.

They are enshrouded in darkness. I can’t even really see what instruments are being played. I almost feel a sense of reverence; I don’t want to get too close. I don’t want to interfere. I don’t want to be seen observing.

It feels like this is a private ritual, not intended for an outsider’s eyes.

Each of the competing bands is made up of men. Some playing instruments, but many singing and chanting. The music rises and falls in intensity. The men seem transported.

It is almost sacred. And it brings me to tears. I don’t really understand why. I quickly move away from my place in the shadows. I leave them to their reverie.

I turn towards home, stopping across the street where I can still hear the sound. I sit down to think about why I have tears running down my face.

I realize that I have always been mesmerized by group performances. That sense of camaraderie. Togetherness. Passion. I always get a lump in my throat, which, if not carefully managed, tumbles into tears.

What am I missing in my life that these experiences touch me so deeply. My introverted, disconnected, very safe life.

Maybe I’m ready for a new life. A more connected life.

Maybe it is time to join something.

I’d be curious to hear your thoughts about my decision not to photograph people just living their daily lives.

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JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently writing from Cuzco, Perú

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

In case you missed it…

Here’s some of the comments I received on last week’s The Travel Paradox entitled On the street where I live.

If you are interested in reading more, you can also find me at Jumble of Sea Glass, home of my non-travel related writing.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

On the street where I live

Where even the shortest walk still makes my heart race.

Where the sun, when it shines, even at the coolest temperature, brings intense heat.

Where lives are lived outdoors, in all weathers.

Where I am surrounded by people falling in love.

Where the congress between vehicles of all shapes and sizes mimics the most intimate of dances.

Where children in school uniforms clutch tightly to the hands of their mothers as they rush to school.

Where everyone is connected to a cell phone – to talk, to watch, to listen.

Where it seems that everywhere, everyone, is right there, on the street, ready to sell you what you wish for.

This is the street where I live. 1

Cuzco, Perú

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On February 18, 2026, my post entitled I’m going back included these paragraphs:

My second impressions of my neighbourhood, from my travel journal:

In this neighbourhood I almost never see anyone who doesn’t look Peruvian to me.

I am not a tourist here. I am an alien. An oddity.

There is no tourist infrastructure here: no sales pitches, no established line of contact, no efforts at accommodation.

Just people living their lives.

And me. Living mine.

I’ve been to Cuzco before. I love the colonial centre with its mix of Inca foundations and colonial additions. I love the energy of the place, and the hilly streets. But for me, the colonial centre was a place to visit. Not a place to live, at least for me.

I wanted to be where life just goes on. Where I am an oddity. I don’t really fit in. But also I have no particular role in life’s local drama.

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The tourist zone

If I walk for 20 minutes, towards the Qoricancha, things shift dramatically. Suddenly, I have a very specific role to play. I am a tourist. I have entered the zone of exchange: cultural, social, financial.

This is a space that is designed for me. Guides who speak English, souvenir shops, and restaurants with menus displayed out front.

This is a space that is designed for exchange; likely the best opportunity for some local people to make a living comes through contact with tourists like me.

This is a space that inspires connection but causes friction, supports enrichment but induces exhaustion. It is a magnifying glass on the deep inequality in our world and just how much so many of us benefit from it.

I didn’t want to live here.

On the street where they live

Instead I chose a neighbourhood that has a university at its heart. There is a beautiful street side park just beyond my doorstep. Everywhere I go I see and hear political messages, as Perú is holding an election next month. I am one of many, last Sunday morning, that discovered there was ‘no plata’ at the bank machine across the street.

I am a recipient of the sing-song sales pitches the street vendors intone out of habit, but their voices get quieter when they look more closely – I do not belong here.

As I file past in a crowd, the offered political leaflet is withdrawn with a shrug – she doesn’t belong here.

But I always feel welcome, despite my alien status. And this was exactly what I was hoping for. Accepted, but mostly ignored. I have no particular role to play. We’re just all doing our thing.

Here, on the street where I live.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Currently based in Cuzco, Perú

Home base: the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You may also enjoy…

Jumble of Sea Glass

Skipping Spring: How I've managed 3 Fall Equinoxes in a Row

It’s been quite a year! 3 Fall equinoxes in a row…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

This is my story of how moving back and forth between hemispheres this year, all my equinoxes have been Fall.

Jumble of Sea Glass is my alternate publication that focuses on my non-travel writing. But occasionally some travel content seeps in.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Here’s what I’ve loved on Substack this week

Did You Hear the One About Two Introverted Nomads Who Stepped Out of Their Comfort Zone? by and

Your 12 Good Years by

Being Trees Together by

It’s something that I really indulge in when I travel. It’s the way I like to travel most.

This thing I do. It’s actually nothing. What I mean is, in its highest form, it is actually doing nothing.

On November 20, 2025, I discovered a name for what I choose to do while travelling. Lisa Abend quotes this line in a piece from her publication :

Those two words – just be — grabbed me. This is what I love to do. This is how I love to travel. I go to a new place, and then I…

Just be.

In Part 1 of my Just Be series I rather cheekily suggest 7 ways to ‘just be’ that disguise the fact that you are sitting there doing ‘nothing’.1

In Part 2 of my Just Be series I encourage travellers to give themselves more time; stay longer, move slower, do fewer things. I make the case that time might be the greatest luxury while travelling.

In the comments on this piece, Kelly of asked me a very specific question, which I’m going to attempt to answer with this Part 3 of my Just Be series.

What a great question! I didn’t immediately have an answer.

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The instinct to ‘just be’: is it natural or or is it learned?

As I write this piece, I’m at the end of 10 days of absolute rest and relaxation – slothfulness, really. I’ve taken ‘just being’ to a whole new level. Hours of reading by the pool, lots of time to write, gazing off into the distance, dreaming of travels to come. This is likely the most intense period of just being I’ve ever had. It is a total luxury, and I am incredibly grateful for it.

I’ve also had a lot of time to think about how I came to embrace this idea, and the factors that allowed me to see value in this complete lack of activity, and why I hope that everyone has time in their lives to pursue these journeys of the mind.

Do you have what it takes?

Here’s the answer to Kelly’s question:

I’ve come up with 7 factors specific to my 58 years on this planet that have encouraged and enabled my instinct for just being.

I’m an introvert

If I’m to present this chronologically, I’d have to say that my first experiences with just being came because I was not a joiner. This has been true throughout my life – I am an introvert and I’m always happy to opt out of activities to get some time to myself.

I remember going on ski trips with friends when I was a teenager. I was happy to go with a big group and participate in all the social activities in the evening. But I wasn’t going to ski. I loved having the whole day to myself – to just be.

I’m a reader

I’ve always been a reader.2 But a book is also a great excuse to sit and watch the world go by. Reading in public places has always been as much about observing the world around me as it is about consuming a book.

Reading trains you to open your mind, focus, and imagine. These are excellent skills for mastering just being, because so much of just being occurs in the mind. Calming the need to move on. Allowing yourself to be present exactly where you are.

I’m a people watcher

People fascinate me. All over the world, I love to quietly observe my fellow humans, whether they are tourists navigating a new country or people who can’t imagine why we tourists would find their lives so fascinating.

I’m not sure I really understand people, but I do find observing vignettes of a life very interesting.

I’m an RVer

Much of my early travel was done in a motorhome which is a great way to travel with kids. Living a stripped down life, stopping regularly in parks and at playgrounds, and filling long, quiet evenings while camping provided so many opportunities to just be.

Sitting by a campfire, exploring the deserted main street of a new town just before sundown, or delaying bedtime so the kids could continue to lie on their bellies watching ants marching industriously across a road. These are the ways we stretch time and observe new things and take on unique ways of thinking.

I’m a penny pincher

There isn’t actually a nicer way to say it. I can be very parsimonious. I’m trying to improve, but my natural tendency is that I either a) spend the money and become obsessed with getting full value or b) don’t spend the money and have to amuse myself doing things that are free. Being someone who can happily just be is very cost effective.

But there is another aspect to penny pinching that I actually think has served me very well. If I go to a National Museum, for instance, I plan to go for the whole day. I’m not going to rush. I’m going to spend 20 minutes standing in front of one painting if I want to. I’m going to make sure I have time to return to the thing I really loved so that I can spend the last minutes of the museum’s opening hours just taking it all in.

I miss a lot that I could have quickly seen with this strategy. But what I do see, I see deeply. Quality means far more to me than quantity.

I’m very curious

I’m ridiculously curious. Annoyingly curious. I can become obsessively curious about the most obscure things. Granted, these particularly curiosities are generally fleeting as I move on to some other shiny object, but they are deeply held while they are at the forefront of my mind.

This ability to be curious about practically anything, given the right circumstances, is very conducive to just being. I can observe the most mundane things yet have my mind swirl with questions about how this happens, or why that thing occurred.

I love to figure out how things work, or what caused certain choices to be made. The debate in my mind is constant. This means I am rarely bored.

I love the anticipation of waiting for ‘something’ to happen

I have a great ability to sit and wait. I will watch for whales in places that nobody else thinks they will see whales. I will stand by a lock on an deserted canal waiting, just in case a narrowboat might appear to go through the lock. I will stay in one place on a beach just waiting, and waiting, until the incoming tide finally brings the foamy waves to my sandy toes.

I love to see how long it will take until….

I love to see things others won’t wait to see. If I see something once I always think if I wait long enough I’ll see it again.

Maybe ‘just being’ is just for me.

As I write this list I realize that I don’t actually know anyone else who is like me. I’m not saying I’m unique – more that I’m just weird.

But one of the greatest benefits of the internet is that we can reach the whole world with our stories. And sometimes you connect with someone else who is just like you. Are you out there?

Learning a new way to travel

Kelly’s original question alludes to a concept that one has to ‘unlearn’ a faster way of travelling and being. It’s one that I can understand.

But I’ve always travelled slow. I’ve always included lots of opportunity for quiet reflection, extended observance, and making the most of a moment. My way of travelling was always completely different from the way I worked. I worked obsessively, immersively, intensively.

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Now I’m trying to write compellingly about slow travel, and cause others to consider adding a healthy dose of ‘just being’ to their travel days. I’m not sure my story of how I ‘naturally’ came to this travel method will provide any encouragement to anyone wanting to slow down.

But here is a new revelation I just had.

Become a writer

If you really want to add some ‘just being’ into your travel days, take up writing. And then you can ‘charge’ that time you are ‘just being’ as a business expense.

I’m embracing the writer’s life as I travel, and having committed to posting twice a week3 means that I do a whole lot of just being with my laptop at the ready, waiting for inspiration to strike.

For me, this system works a treat.

I’d love to hear your ‘just being’ stories.

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JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Based in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

In case you missed it…

Last week’s The Travel Paradox was called A suspension bridge: Figuring out what is right for me… right now.

Here’s what a few very generous readers had to say about it:

I loved reading this piece, and I’m trying to be in a season of ‘yes’ too! Especially saying ‘yes to embracing writing and creating as a calling and yes to travelling on my own.’ ~

…you’re absolutely right of course — saying yes is great but sometimes ‘no’ is the braver option and the right call. ~

As the suspension bridge clearly points out, life is a balancing act. ~

This is my season of saying yes. Yes to things that challenge me, scare me, push me.

Yes to embracing writing and creating as a calling. Yes to travelling on my own. And yes to taking full advantage of the retired life we planned and saved for.

But there is also something I’ve decided to say no to. I’d like to say it’s because I’m making a well-reasoned decision, and not that I lack bravery, determination, and a willingness to fail. I’ll let you decide.

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A cenote in captivity

There is a cenote1 at the entrance of our complex which has been ‘preserved’ to accommodate environmental regulations, I imagine. It also looks good on the website.

You can swim in the cenote, or enjoy a swing in a hammock alongside the cenote. You can also observe the water fountain that was installed in the middle of the cenote. Or admire the foundational walls that have been constructed alongside the cenote.

Or you can choose to not think too deeply about what happens to a cenote when it becomes subsumed into a resort. I’m clearly not that type of person. I can’t stop thinking about that cenote.2

There is also a suspension bridge strung across the cenote, and this wobbling, waving structure is the primary entrance into this complex. It looks wonderful in the pictures. It was described as ‘very fun’ in one of the AirBnB reviews.

On the first morning of our time here, as I drank my coffee cenote-side, I witnessed many people negotiating the ‘very fun’ suspension bridge. It is wide enough that you have to choose: right side, left side, or middle. No walking carefully along, with both hands on the ropes.

It was almost a personality test. Myers-Briggs became the Suspension Bridge test. How you cross a suspension bridge may say a great deal about who you are. I’m almost tempted to write my own 16 personality types based on that morning’s research, but I’ll spare you that for now.

I will tell you the story of two tired travellers arriving here that first day, around supper time, and our first traverse across the suspension bridge.

Of course I can cross a suspension bridge

I’m travelling with my son who is recovering from major knee surgery. He’s up and about, but his walking is very limited and he’s still not great on his feet. Add to that a back pack and large bag, and I think you can see where we are headed.

And then there is me. I’ve got my big pack on my back, and my front pack jauntily (or maybe carelessly) thrown over one shoulder. No problem. I got this.

My son forges ahead across the bridge, within reach of the left side. I follow a short distance behind, within reach of the right side, but far enough behind that the wave action is in full swing by the time I set off. My balance is completely off with my second, but rather heavy, pack dangling precariously off my shoulder. Particularly now that I’m clinging to the side for dear life.

No dignity for me, I must admit. Any hope to impress the new neighbours is well and truly shattered by this spectacle. Fortunately there weren’t too many people out and about at that moment.

My second attempt will of course be a breeze

Later that evening, when we went out for supper, I decided that I was going to conquer that bridge. The trip out and the trip back, this time without any packs to blame, weren’t actually any better. It was still a nightmare that involved a lot of clutching.

My attempt at saying YES to the suspension bridge wasn’t working too well.

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Reassessing my options

I could tell you that my reason for sitting by the cenote that first morning, while I drank my morning coffee, was purely an aesthetic choice. But that wouldn’t be the truth. My primary purpose that morning was to figure out a way to exit the property without having to cross that suspension bridge. I hadn’t entirely given up, but I was certainly interested in having an ‘exit plan’.

I recently read a piece by Jennifer of about her recent experience with her first cruise called ‘The Islands Were Beautiful. The Cruise was…’ in which she describes how her determination to say YES overcame her suspicion that cruising really wasn’t for her. I encourage you to read her post as it is a thoughtful discussion of how to say yes while fully honouring what doesn’t work for you right now.

My favourite line from Jennifer’s piece:

“It’s just not aligned with who I am right now.”

I don’t want to spoil anything, but as I just wrote about needing an ‘exit plan’ I was reminded of her post. I also like having options.

Speaking of cruises, I’ve read a number of pieces lately for and against cruising. One that comes to mind is by called Most Dangerous Cruise Line which sounds negative, but in the comments Erin defends her decision to cruise a couple of times a year because this is the best way for her mother to travel with her. This is an example of what works for her right now.3

What is right for me right now?

I am currently sitting, surrounded by tourists and tourist amenities in a very touristy place. That’s one way to look at it. I’m spending my morning by a rooftop pool, intermittently swimming and then returning to my laptop to finish up this post. Am I experiencing real Mexico? Not in the least.

But this is the best place for my son to be right now. He’s 3 months post-surgery, and is absolutely done with Canadian winter4 He is now at a point where he can do his physio in a regular gym for a few weeks. I’m choosing to be here because he is here. This is what works for us right now.

When he is well, he’ll be back to adventures like riding his bike across Jordan or sea kayaking along the west coast of British Columbia. And when I leave here, I’ll go back to travelling to places that don’t have rooftop pools and concierge services.

Back to the suspension bridge

So where am I with the suspension bridge? I tried again on the second day, and I still didn’t like it. I honestly felt like it would be too easy to injure myself, and for what? It’s not like that’s the only way to get to the other side of the cenote. If I injure myself on this trip it better be doing something more exciting and adventurous than getting to the resort exit.

So I’m a NO on the suspension bridge. Not forever, just for now. Give me a suspension bridge to access something exciting or unique, I’m pretty sure I’ll make a different decision.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be back to YES.

What are you saying YES to right now?
And what are you wisely saying NO to?

I’d love to hear about it.

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JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

I’m based in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You find more of my writing at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Some of my favourite things on Substack this week

Jacky of All Travels

You Can't See Everything (And Maybe You Shouldn't Try)

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the push and pull that shapes how I travel. The need to feel a place deeply, to stay long enough to get a sense of it and not just drift by, and at the same time the urge to see everything, to do everything, the feeling that there’s so much to …

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3 months ago · 9 likes · 3 comments · Jacky of All Travels

Where's Ems?

“Aren’t you afraid?” – An International Women’s Day Special

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3 months ago · 12 likes · 4 comments · Emma Truscott

Roasted Snow

Does anyone else have a complicated relationship with home?

NOTE: This is a fifteen-minute read (sorry). I’d add one of those ‘read more’ buttons so you don’t have a whack of text in your inbox, but I don’t know how to do it. Any non-Luddites want to show me the way, please shout! Also, a huge thank you to my guest contributors…

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3 months ago · 33 likes · 23 comments · Alix O'Neill

Maybe I should just leave it at that. There is a TL;DR below if you what to skip the wordy bit…

I’m about to depart on a trip that I have been preparing for for nearly 6 months, and I’m finding that these final days before departure are not particularly conducive to the process of writing – while not anything terribly cohesive anyway. As yet another self-imposed publishing day looms, I’ve decided to just write about something in front of me, and see where we end up.

I really appreciate anyone who is willing to come along with me, as I write about ducks, luck, a board game, and a quiet prayer of gratitude.

I particularly want to welcome all the new subscribers who arrived here via Gerry’s recommendation this week. Here are a few other posts that might interest you, if random duck talk isn’t your thing.

Try Understanding the Travel Paradox or I’m going back.

Lucky duck

When I was a kid we used to say – ooh, you lucky duck – when something good happened to someone else. Maybe a little disingenuously, as if to say – not sure why they get all the luck.

Childhood is a lot about learning how the world works, about fairness, and about the thing we perceive as ‘luck’. Growing into a functioning adult requires a sense of responsibility to chart your own path, but also very much an acceptance that so much is out of our control. Sometimes we are lucky ducks. Sometimes everything kind of sucks.

Lucky Duchy

My family enjoys playing a table game called Dominion. In its broadest terms it is a card game in which you gain points by purchasing land cards: Estate, Duchy, Province and Colony cards.

We have a running joke where we call a Duchy card and Ducky card. It’s not that funny, but what longstanding family joke is? 1

There is a strategy where a player buys a Duchy card early, before anyone is really paying attention to how many points (land cards) have been accumulated. And sometimes, you win by the exact 3 points earned with that early Duchy card, and we call that (I think you might already be ahead of me on this) a Lucky Duchy (pronounced Ducky). I won that way, just the other day.

So maybe making an early decision brings you luck? Hmmm.

Are ducks actually lucky?

So here’s my question; Are ducks actually lucky? Or are English-speakers just lazy and unimaginative rhymers?

Maybe ducks are in fact known, worldwide, to be lucky, and there are, in fact, countless versions of the saying ‘lucky duck’ in a range of languages. Let me know if you have an example.

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The lakeside with ducks, and an empty page

What got me thinking about ducks, lucky and otherwise, is that I’m enjoying the first efforts of an Okanagan spring2 and I’m observing how quiet and peaceful it all is. The ducks have the beach and lake to themselves. They rule the roost.

But as I sit here, I know it won’t be long until neither I, nor the ducks, will have the place to ourselves. Summer here, by the lake, is absolutely mayhem. Almost unrecognizable. Our little community expands exponentially as tourists flock here for sun on the lakeside.

I was thinking that I am a lucky duck. I hope we (I guess I mean me and my readers, as ducks aren’t great philosophers) all fully appreciate our good fortune. These quiet moments in a beautiful spot with the hopes of the season before us.3

My hope, as I sat there, was that inspiration would strike, and I would create something readable for this week’s newsletter. Have you made it this far?

The perfect analogy. A narrative arc. Compelling writing that brings it all home…

Sorry. No hope of that this week.

But I do have ducks. And I am one lucky duck.

Here’s my takeaway — the TL;DR4

• You make your own luck, except when you can’t and that’s just life

• Sometimes an early decision can make everything work out for the win

• Live in the moment like a duck. Enjoy what you have when you have it

• Swim away like a duck. Too busy here? Don’t like the food? Life’s too short to stay stuck in one place

• When you have a writing deadline, just look around you for inspiration. You might write something really profound — or you won’t. That, too, is just life.

What’s next for The Travel Paradox?

I’m beginning 2 months of slow, slow travel. I’m spending a couple of weeks in Mexico with my son followed by 6 weeks in Cusco, Perú, a place I visited last year which really stole my heart.

I’ll be test driving solo travel, taking some time for a creative retreat, spending loads of time ‘just being’, and taking in so much more of the culture and history of an amazing place.

I expect that my activity on Substack, both here on The Travel Paradox as well as my other publication, Jumble of Sea Glass, will increase. I’ll keep to my usual posting schedule for newsletters in your inbox (Wednesday for TTP, most Sundays for JOSG), but there will also be lots of notes in your Substack feed. Watch for me there.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

This week’s The Travel Paradox is from September 6, 2025. It is the 7th part of a series a wrote on souvenirs (I’ve included the links below if you’d like to read them all).

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From the archives:

The perfect purple

For those of you who have been with me since the start of this ‘souvenir’ journey — this is part seven, as you can see from the title — telling the stories of some of the unusual souvenirs I have gathered on my travels, you’ll recall that most of my writings have been lighthearted and even silly. And I could write a lighthearted and silly piece about this souvenir as well. But that isn’t what is bubbling to the surface. I don’t think that is the story that I am going to tell. Not today anyway.

That lighthearted and silly version would go something like this:

We had tea with a lovely group of Quechua women who seemed quite taken with how tall my husband was, who sang us a lovely song of greeting, who repeatedly called our guide ‘papa’ which to me just sounded like Grandpa which I found funny, and they flirted wildly with him (our guide, not my husband), and he translated information about yarn dying and using urine as a mordant, as well as the cleanest versions of their naughty jokes. And then I bought a ball of alpaca yarn, dyed purple, which is the colour that requires urine to bind the dye to the fiber.

Purple is also my favourite colour.

But that’s not the version I’m going to tell

I’m going to be honest about how that visit to that tiny Andean village actually affected me, and how this experience was part of the impetus for this project: The Travel Paradox.

Buckle up. This might take awhile.

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This is the story about a ball of laceweight, alpaca yarn, processed, spun and dyed by the Quechua women of a small Andean village, and how it came to rest on my desk here in Canada.

But that ball of yarn is actually part of the bigger story of how my heart and mind cracked open with questions. I’ve decided to embrace those questions, and attempt to figure out how to travel with my eyes wide open. This is what brought me to the Travel Paradox.

The Andes via Antarctica

For my whole life, it seems, I’ve wanted to travel to Antarctica. It seemed impossible to me that this would ever happen, but it was a dream I’ve always carried with me. And this year, we did it. I still find it hard to believe!

Travelling to Antarctica meant departing from South America, and in our case, two stopovers in Lima, Perú. This grew into a 18 day stopover, primarily in Cusco and the Sacred Valley. Antarctica was the trip of a lifetime, but I think Perú actually changed my life.

When we first decided to extend our time in Perú, I assumed that I would do all the planning and booking, just like I always have done for our travels. But time was very short. We’d purchased the Antarctic portion of our trip on a last minute sale, and then taken a further 3 weeks or more to decide to add the extra time in Perú. I did not have enough time to get prepared for the Antarctic portion and properly plan for the Perú portion in the 8 weeks remaining before departure.

Taking the easy route

I took a step I had never taken before. I hired a local travel company, ¹ and handed over the keys. That was the start of an incredible process that curated a perfect trip, just for us, facilitated on the ground by an amazing guide and lovely driver, supported by customer service staff at every turn, and booked into the best hotels and restaurants and activities.

I was able to just sit back and relax while every need or whim was met. We were cared for, coddled, and cossetted. All the frictions and challenges were removed as we were expertly transported from one breathtaking site to another. We were in the very best of hands.

On this particular day, after a beautifully prepared and presented 3 course lunch in the chef’s home in Maras, we travelled to a tiny village to visit with a group of Quechua women to learn about fibre processing, spinning, dying and weaving.

I understand that it is common for local tour companies to develop a relationship with an individual village that involves bringing tourists to visit, and may also include forms of financial support beyond what is gained through selling products to visitors. Travelling in early April, we were the first visitors of the season, and the only visitors they had that day.

All that effort, just for us

My partner and I were treated like royalty. We were greeted with flowers placed around our necks, and then promptly covered in a blanket that crushed the beautiful flowers. We were given tea and snacks. A song of greeting was sung, and each of the 12 women introduced themselves with their ages and the number of children they had. There was a demonstration of wool processing, carding, spinning, dying, weaving and knitting. For a fibre lover, it was a truly delightful experience. I wish I had brought my knitting with me.

Not only did I not have my knitting, I didn’t actually have much money. You know the refrain – No thank you. No room in our backpacks. We do not buy souvenirs of travels – it’s one of our top 5 traveller’s rules. Blah, blah, blah. 2

This wasn’t just a cultural exchange.

Here’s the problem with this whole set up. Communities turn themselves inside out to provide for tourists who then leave money behind to make that upheaval worth it. It’s an old story.

Instead of doing whatever productive tasks they usually do in an afternoon, these 12 women organized a tea party for 2 Canadians who don’t buy things! The fact that we had hired a tour company to organize our trip had bumped us into a new category of tourist – the type that spend, spend, spend. The type that these villagers who decide to engage with tourists require to make the venture worthwhile.

Instead they got us. Middle aged, middle class, overly frugal backpackers.

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I like to think that I am a respectful and appreciative visitor. I was deeply moved by the encounter. My guide graciously agreed to translate a speech I gave at the end which came from my heart. I actually got teary. As an introvert, I easily become overwhelmed by any kind of connection, even when it is part of a commercial transaction.

I also have a pretty acute case of ‘white lady guilt’ that can be pretty annoying to all concerned, I’m sure. I seem to have lost the ability to just accept things at face value – they try to sell things, I decide whether or not to buy. They take their opportunity, just like any other merchant. That’s the deal, right?

And unlike every other vendor on the street selling their wares, this situation allowed for a personal connection to be formed, which has to increase the likelihood of a sale, right? It’s just business.

The paradox of travel

This is just the beginning of the questions this afternoon churned up in my constantly whirling, overthinking brain.

There are the massive world-wide questions about income inequality, poverty, and colonization. I could write a book about that.

There are the mid-level questions about the ethics of dropping into people’s personal space for an afternoon for my own entertainment, and then walking away with stories and pictures of their hardship, hard work, and hardscrabble lives.

There are the personal questions about whether I spent enough, did I come off as an entitled North American, or did my reticence just come off as snobbishness?

Or how about the overall insanity that my time in the area involved the full-time service of two individuals, who opened doors for us, translated for us, waited for us? 3 I understand that an American dollar goes a long way in Perú, 4 but it felt like the height of extravagance to have these two wonderful guys all to ourselves. 5

I have never in my life spent even a single day working as hard as these Quechua women work every day, yet here I was drinking their tea and barely buying the exquisite items they had made.

This beautiful ball of yarn in my absolute favourite colour is a souvenir of that afternoon. But more than that it was the beginning of a chasm in my thinking.

A tourist, a traveller, an overthinker

As a tourist, I’m supposed to learn a fact or two about natural fibre processing and a bit about life in a Quechua village. And in payment I buy a bunch of souvenirs for friends back home. Was I successful as a tourist? Not really.

As a traveller, I’m supposed to think a bit more deeply about my experience and the circumstances that surrounded my encounter with this very interesting place, but I’m also supposed to move on to the next thing on the schedule.

As an overthinker, I can’t seem to let any of this go. I’m dissatisfied with my response, my actions, and my place in these transactions. I feel disheartened that I live in a world where the best option for these women is to open their lives to people who are just passing through. And I feel like there really isn’t a ‘right way’ to travel and see the world beyond our own cultural comfort zone.

Or maybe the paradox is that many countries rely on people like me to come and spend money, even if we don’t do it ethically, respectfully, and sensitively. They just need the economic activity that tourism brings to survive in a pretty harsh world. And my ‘overthinking’ is just gumming up the works, and the fact that I even have time to think and write about this is an example of some pretty intense white privilege.

I’m not any closer to an answer, obviously. I’m not convinced that there are any real answers.

I also know that there is little chance that I’ll develop any ability to shut down my over-active brain, so I’ll just keep asking questions.

Does any of this resonate with you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Interested in the other 6 posts about souvenirs?

No thank you. No room in our backpacks, I always say. We do not buy souvenirs of travels – it’s one of our top 5 traveller’s rules.

But as I sit here at my desk, I’m actually surrounded by objects that came from our travels. At least one is a completely ‘normal’ souvenir, although it does not have a country or city name printed on it. A few are what is considered ‘normal’ for a knitter to buy on their travels. One is technically illegal, and the rest are either ephemera or junk.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6

JL Orr

The Travel Paradox and Jumble of Sea Glass

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

There are many travellers that firmly believe you should never look back; never return. They’re the ones who say ‘you can never go home again’, and why, frankly, would you want to. There are so many new places to visit.

The other extreme opposite of travellers are those who find their happy place, and they return, and return and return.

But what about those who are open to adventure and newness, but just can’t stop themselves from occasionally taking the risk of returning – giving in to that desire to recreate, relive and revive the experiences of the past.

I’m in that middle camp. I’m a returner. And I’m about to do it again.

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You can’t go home again

One of my first experiments with returning was a pretty low stakes affair. Within months of its opening, my family visited the brand new exhibit, Passages of the Deep, an acrylic tunnel that meanders through ocean habitats, at the Oregon Coast Aquarium. 2

This was one of the most incredible things I had experienced. We spent the whole day, from open until close, with a quick stop back to our motorhome for lunch, enjoying the whole site, but easily spent a couple of hours in the tunnel – particularly towards closing time when we had the place to ourselves.

It was such an overwhelming visual experience with so much sea life on display. I remember watching starfish slowly moving over the glass, and sharks darting about, and one habitat in particular had so much colour. When I was asked by others my best experience of that 6 week journey along the Pacific Coast, I consistently said Passage of the Deep.

A few years later we returned to Oregon (I’ve been back so many times now – it’s an absolute favourite) we revisited, with great anticipation, Newport Beach’s Oregon Coast Aquarium, and I immediately went to my favourite place.

It just wasn’t the same. I’ve probably been there 5 times now. And it has never captured me in the way it did that first time back in 2001. Part of me wishes that I had just held on to that first magical memory; you can’t go home again.

You can go home again

A few years later, in the depths of winter, I got the urge to find some sun. I simply couldn’t bear Christmas in the cold, so we started to discuss warm places that might suit our purpose.

My husband chose Cuba. We left our car in a parking lot in Calgary in snow so deep it was difficult to walk. Getting off the plane in Varadero early that next morning, I was hit by the heat and the humidity. My first ever experience of warmth during winter. I still remember that first breath, exhausted from an overnight flight with a 5 year old that didn’t sleep for even a moment, but oh so happy to be there.

That trip was the first time we had flown to another country as a family. My international experience at that time was restricted to the continental US, and an afternoon in Tijuana, Mexico when we walked across the border.

Canadians travelling to Cuba generally visit all-inclusive resorts and don’t stray very far. A day trip to Havana from Varadero is considered an adventure.

We considered ourselves quite brave. We started in Varadero with a few days of all-inclusive, and then we took the tourist bus into Havana for a few nights, followed by another all-inclusive resort in Trinidad.

We caught the travel bug on that trip, and we fell in love with Cuba. Two years later, we were back.

On our second trip we stayed in casa particulares (B&Bs), just passing through resorts when they were convenient. We travelled in unlicensed taxis from town to town, and we spent our days visiting the sites and wandering the streets. We stopped at every playground so that our now 7 year old could play. And we watched the world go by.

Our second trip was even more glorious and fascinating than our first. We were starting to figure out what type of travel worked best for us. Returning, but in a better way, proved that maybe you can go home again.

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Home is where you make it

In 1998 my partner and I drove across Canada, and during that trip we spent seven days in Newfoundland. I journalled every moment of that trip, and I thought that I had particularly clear memories of our time on ‘the Rock’. As we were getting back on the ferry, back to Nova Scotia on the mainland, I knew I wanted to return. Newfoundland is an incredible place that most Canadians never get to.

In 2015, while flying to Ireland from Calgary, we had a stopover in St John’s, Newfoundland. We spent a couple of hours at the airport around midnight, before our overnight hop to Dublin. I remember staring out the windows into the inky darkness wishing that I could see the incredible landscapes that are Newfoundland.

It took until 2024 for us to return, this time leaving the airport for 5 weeks. We rented a vehicle, and we did our best to get to every part of the island. But even with 5 weeks, we didn’t succeed. There is just too much to see and do in Newfoundland. 3

We revisited many places but also saw so much that was new to us. Looking back on our 1998 one-week journey across Newfoundland I now recall just how much of that time was spent driving. Long, long drives are a hallmark of any visit.

That first trip was taken in our Honda Civic with a backseat full of camping gear. The 2024 version was a rented VW Taos, carrying only our backpacks and a cooler as we transited between AirBnB’s and the occasional hotel room.

The incredible scenery and friendliness of the people was exactly as I remembered it. But that’s it. Returning to all these places I realized that I really couldn’t remember anything. Or, nothing was as I remembered it.

My journal is filled with statements like ‘we don’t remember much of it’, ‘nothing was particularly familiar’, and ‘you’d think I’d remember at least a bit, but in the end I recognized nothing’.

So Newfoundland was a whole new experience for me, even if it was my second time.

We were also different people. Instead of being two people thinking about whether or not we would choose to spend our lives together, we were now two people with a quarter century of marriage under our belts. We were through the parenting stage and the working stage and now were on the retirement stage. Moving slowly instead of rushing from place to place.

So maybe home is wherever you make it.

A story that has not yet been written

Here’s my final story of returning for today, and it’s one that has not yet been written.

Last April, I boarded a plane from Cusco back to Lima, Peru. A few days, and a few more flights later, we landed back in British Columbia.

As I was walking through the Cusco airport I turned to my husband and said, I’m not ready to go. I want to do it all over again.

That feeling never left me. I still want to do it all over again.

As I watched out the window as our plane lifted up over the mountains I could not really fathom how I would find my way back. It felt like Perú was a once in a lifetime-type place.

But why? Who made that rule? Eventually I decided that really the only thing stopping me from returning was my own lack of imagination.

I’m going back

In a few weeks I’ll be getting off a plane in Cusco. I’ll be lugging my backpack down the stairs out of the airplane and feeling the sudden effects of 3300 m above sea level. By the time I get through the airport I’ll be completely exhausted. I may be regretting my choices after a sleepless night on too many airplanes.

But in the end, none of that will matter. I know that what will matter is that I’ll be back. And while I’m there, that will be my home.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Home base: the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

You can also find more of my non-travel related writing at Jumble of Sea Glass.

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

In December I posted a piece called Just be: My top 7 ways to ‘just be’ while getting the most out of travel, and maybe even life. It received a fair bit of attention, by tiny little Substacker standards, and I realized that I had hit on something that really suited certain types of travellers.

The premise of the piece was that some of the best travel experiences come from when you aren’t really doing anything. You are just being. You are just soaking it all in.

I suggest 7 things you can ‘do’ while just being, to provide a bit of shape or context (like wildlife watching or sketching) but the whole purpose is to just slow way, way down, and see and experience all that is around you.

I’m getting ready to go on a trip; a trip that will be chock full of hours and days of ‘just being’. I cannot wait! I’m going to people-watch, and write, and gaze at the clouds, and listen to the world around me. I’m going to pay attention to whatever comes my way.

Sounds delicious, doesn’t it?

For at least some of you, your reaction will be NO! Sounds terrible! Why would you spend your days mooning around doing nothing when there is this site to see and that excursion to go on. You are missing out on everything!

To be fair, I could write a whole book on all the amazing things I DID NOT see or do in any given number of fabulous places because I was ‘just being’. Maybe some day I will write that book.

I can also say with absolute assurance that some of my best travel memories are rooted in times when I decided to walk across a city, or spend a day by the river, or quietly read my book for an hour in the Louvre – true story. Anyone can go up the Eiffel Tower but have you spent the dying moments of a sunny day in January snoozing along the Seine?

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Here’s a thought. Why do we consider it completely normal to take a two week vacation to a sunny resort and spend every day sitting in the sunshine by the pool, or lying on the beach, but look askance at anyone who would spend a whole day relaxing in (insert any famous tourist location here), just being and absorbing? Why is it that the fact that there is a TripAdvisor 100 Top Attractions list for every locale make us think that we have to spend all day, every day, ticking them off the list one by one? To the point of complete exhaustion and utter overwhelm. Can we even remember where we’ve been?

I can understand that pace might be exhilarating for some, and if this works for you, by all means carry on. But if you are reading this, you likely have some different views on how you want to travel.

So this is just here to remind you that your instinct to travel in a more absorbing and questioning way is a good one. Lean into it. Don’t let others talk you out of it.

I hope you give yourself the gift of time. I hope you will choose to move slower and stay longer. Settle in. Get comfortable. You never know what you might see.

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Just being, at home

I will begin by saying that I am very fortunate. I am retired, and I have lots of time and flexibility. I can appreciate that this is not true for most people in their daily lives.

I will also say that even when you are retired, it is easy to get in a mindset of busy-ness; a sense that you have to keep moving on to the next thing.

Today, I was out on my walk. Much of my normal walking route is along the lakeside, and I occasionally see things that pique my interest. As I was rounding a curve, after a few trees, I saw in the distance, perched on a log, a Great Blue Heron. I slowly and quietly walked along the lakeside path until I was as close as I could get, trying not to spook him. But he seemed completely unfazed by me.

I had already been out for at least an hour by that time, and was planning to stop by my parents for my daily visit. Also lunch was on the horizon, and it would have been easy to stop briefly and then move on. But I got the urge to ‘just be’. What is the point of retirement if you can’t just stop what you are doing and enjoy the moment?

We see blue herons fairly often at the north end of the lake, but I had never seen one in town before. He was sitting on this log that stretched out over the water, and he was scanning, scanning, watching for fish. After standing for a bit, I decided to settle in. I sat right down on the pathway and spent a good 30 minutes watching and waiting alongside him. And once I got settled I started to hear more clearly the lapping of the water on the shore, and the other birds in the area. And the sun broke through the clouds, and I felt entirely at peace. This is the magic of ‘just being’.

In the end, neither of us saw any fish. I eventually walked back up the hill to my parents’ place and then home for lunch. But all day long I had that sense of contentment that comes from being quiet and taking it all in.

I don’t know who needs to hear this but I hope you make time in each day to let that magic in, whether you are home or on the road. There is magic all around us.

Slow down, or you’ll miss it: my favourite geyser in Yellowstone

As I was sitting watching the Great Blue Heron today, I was reminded of another time that I sat myself down on a pathway to watch something amazing.

In 2023, we visited Yellowstone National Park. We were walking in Norris Basin.

Here’s what I wrote in my journal:

There were a number of very interesting features at Norris, including the Vixen geyser which I think is now my favourite. We saw it erupting at a short distance, and then again about 10 minutes later once we were watching it.

At first, I wasn’t sure which geyser the nameplate went with because there was just a small dry hole with anemone-like structures around it, but no water to be seen. But then I heard some gurgling, which slowly became spluttering and then a smallish geyser. It erupted for about 90 seconds, and then the pool that had formed around the hole funneled back down into the earth. You could see an actual funnel, and you could hear a flushing sound until the last bit of water drained away. I thought it was so amazing that I decided to sit down and wait for it to happen again.

It only took about 5 minutes for the empty hole to burble then splutter. And then it erupted, sometimes a foot or two, sometimes more. But this went on for 20 minutes.

A few people even sat down to watch with me. But no one stayed the full 20 minutes. I wanted to say to everyone who came by that they needed to wait to the end – the funnel, and the flushing/draining sound, and the completely empty hole. But they all missed it.

In that 30 minutes on the boardwalk next to a geyser in one of the most famous places on earth, no one but me had the full experience. Sure they saw the water spray into the air, but that was only the showy bit.

The amazing bit was the sight and sound of what was happening under the surface. It was such a cool experience!

The world is a pretty incredible place. I’m so thankful that I have the time to experience it.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Jumble of Sea Glass and The Travel Paradox

Based in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

In case you missed it…

Part 1 of my series of articles contrasting my London and Paris solo trip of 2012 with my upcoming solo trip to Perú.

And here’s part 2.

I am embracing solo travel, and living my new motto for 2026:

Pay attention
Be astonished
Tell about it

Mary Oliver, Instructions for Living a Life

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Is solo travel really for me?

In 6 weeks, I’ll be on my own in a foreign country for the first time since my trip to Paris in January 2012. I’ve been thinking a lot about that time I spent in Paris, and how I actually managed that experiment with solo travel.

I journalled every moment of that trip, and I told many, many stories to friends and family about how much I loved travelling to an incredible place on my own.

But there was really a whole other story that I didn’t tell; a story I didn’t want to admit to anyone.

That story was of loss and depression, and deep, deep questions about where I fit in the world. Being entirely on my own brought an incredible level of freedom, but also completely unmoored me. I felt completely lost.

How will I know unless I try?

In March, I’ll be returning to Cusco, Perú, having spent 2 weeks there in April last year. This time, I’m going on my own, with a plan to stay for about 6 weeks. I want to really settle in and explore, and I also intend to use that time as a creative retreat.

I’m very excited to have this incredible opportunity. I took the decision to return very thoughtfully over many months, understanding the very real challenges I will face, being on my own. But I’m certain the decision is the right one. I won’t know if solo travel is the right choice for me until I test it. So I booked the plane tickets and the accommodations, and I’ll soon be on my way.

Back in 2012, I fell hard for Paris. I felt like I had arrived in heaven even though I was seeing it in the grey, damp light of January. I arrived by Eurostar with my son who was then 19 years old. He was at the start of a 6 month adventure; the beginning of his world travels that continue to this day. 1

We had spent a few days together in London, and then a few in Paris, but I had about 10 days on my own in the City of Light.

Waking up on that first morning on my own, I felt a tremendous feeling of freedom. I remember thinking – I can do anything I like today. Absolutely anything!

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I can do anything I like today

I had a dear friend who used to tell me stories of his adventures backpacking through Europe in his early years, and he would say that every morning he would wake up and say – I can do anything I like today. Over the months that he traveled he would find others who were travelling in the same directions, and they might stay together for a few days or a few weeks. But at any given moment, if his wishes were different from his companions, he would go his own way.

Never in my life had I felt that kind of freedom.

I became a spouse and a parent mere moments after I became an adult. I have never lived without responsibilities to another human. That absolute freedom he spoke of seemed shocking, and intoxicating, to me.

As he spoke, I could not fully imagine it.

On that cold and damp winter morning in Paris, I had my first taste of freedom. I was ready to conquer the city; to be my best, independent self. This was my moment.

My Facebook at that time showed me enjoying an incredible trip that everyone envied. That was one side of the coin.

The reality was that, within a few days, I became completely unmoored.

I was lost, with little idea of who I was or what I wanted. Take away my family and my job, and all the pressures and structures that come with them, and I became a mere shell, despite my surroundings and my freedom.

Fourteen years ago, standing by the Seine, I realized that I had little understanding of who I was when it was just me.

I had never been ‘just me’.

You’d think this discovery would have triggered a change in lifestyle, or the start of a journey towards self-actualization. You’d think I’d realize that I had to develop some sense of myself that wasn’t tied up in parenting and work. But I didn’t.

Within days of returning home from that trip, I was back on the road for work. Back to the place where another’s demands set the entire rhythm of my days.

Retirement — a new kind of lost

Three years ago, I retired. I launched into my new life with great abandon, moving to a new town, changing everything, assuming I would land on my feet. And at first, it seemed that I had.

But as the newness wore off, and I was stuck with empty hours of rattling around in my own mind, I realized that I really had no idea what I wanted to do. There didn’t seem to be much point in the way I was living.

Once again, I felt unmoored.

I wrote about this crisis in Everything, but not enough, in my other publication, Jumble of Sea Glass. It has been a real journey as I’ve set new intentions and embarked on new projects.

At 58, I’m finally figuring out who I am when it’s just me. But I still feel like a sapling whose roots are not yet fully established. I still worry that I could succumb to a windstorm or a heavy snow.

Will solo travel once again leave me feeling unmoored?

Unmoored or unmooring? It’s my choice.

Unmoored feels frightening and anxiety provoking. To be unmoored is to be lost and at sea. To feel insecure, confused and disconnected.

But what happens if I actively choose unmooring? What if I choose to release the moorings, so that I can set sail?

Life has handed me an incredible opportunity, the chance to build a life of adventure and creativity. But I have to be willing to take it. I have to step beyond what is comfortable and easy. I have to try things that will push me and mold me.

I have been given these precious years to pursue a different life, where it’s up to me to decide what to do next. It’s up to me to dig deep and figure out what really matters to me now.

I’m going to spend the next 10 years doing hard things that challenge me. I’m going to figure out exactly what I’m actually capable of. I’m going to discover who I am beyond the bounds of my former life. It’s all up to me.

I’m choosing unmooring.

In case you missed it…

Thank you for spending some time here.

JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

I want to say a big welcome to all the new subscribers who have recently joined The Travel Paradox, and I want to acknowledge just how many of you arrived here due to the recommendation of of Thoughts & Prayers and . I hope that you will find something here that speaks to you.1

This week I’m going to share with you some previously published pieces that practically no one has read, but that some of you might enjoy.

The first is a note I posted on September 29, 2025, in response to an excellent piece from , authored by Eric Weiner who wrote the book The Geography of Bliss. Here’s my take. I wonder what you think.

Where is your soulplace?

From A Sense of Wander:

“I have a theory. Just as each of us has a soulmate we also have a soulplace. Your soulplace is where you know, just know you were meant to be.” ~ from Where is your Soulplace?2

Eric Weiner

Excellent theory, Eric. One I’d like to unpack a bit.

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Sorry – downer alert. I don’t actually believe that each of us has a soulmate, but I’m willing to play along in order to talk about soulplace – because maybe we do have a soulplace. I’m willing to go that far.

If you are still with me, and I haven’t bummed you out too much, let’s talk ‘soulplace’.

But let’s start with how we define ‘place’. Is it a landscape? Is it the land? Maybe it’s the view, the air, the flora and fauna? The way the air smells, the sounds, the weather? Or is it a perfect combination of all these things?

Or maybe it is actually a house, a family, a group of friends, the community? Maybe it’s more about people than place?

I ask all these questions because I truly don’t know.

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In Eric’s piece he talks about people who are born in their soulplace, or discover it early in their lives. Others only find that place near the end of their lives.

I can say for certain that I was not born in my soulplace, nor have I yet lived in my soulplace. Sure, there are things I’ve loved about all the places I’ve lived, but my soul hasn’t really been involved.

What about the places I’ve travelled to? I must confess that I’m one of those travellers who often says ‘I could live here’, and my partner gives me that look that says ‘here we go again’. I’ve always wanted to live outside of Canada and I often fall in love with places that I visit.

The concept of the soulplace is, I think, monogamy. But I’m not ever going to find my ‘soulplace’ if I don’t get the opportunity to properly date a few places before I settle down. I’d definitely be willing to give that a try. It’s just that my partner’s ‘soulplace’ is where all his things are. He’s perfectly happy and content where he is.

For now, I’ll just be speed-dating places. Who knows what will happen.

On September 17, 2025, I posted this piece about making choices while travelling — to move slower, to live like locals, and stretch our travel dollars where possible.

In Alaska, we ate baloney. In Iceland we ate cabbage.

In a previous piece about slow travel in France I made a comment about how many tourists would be appalled by the use of the word ‘grocery store’ in a post about travel. Why do you need a grocery store? Why would you want to cook?

I can understand that perspective, but from the very start, our travel philosophy included a few basic precepts.

1. We wanted to stay in one place for as long as we could

2. We wanted to live like locals as much as we could

3. We wanted to stretch our Canadian dollars as far as we could

That meant finding not only a convenient grocery store, but also an inexpensive grocery store. And doing it pretty quickly.

A long time ago, when our two oldest were still young, and we travelled around western North America in a 24 foot motorhome, we journeyed to Alaska. And the farther we travelled the more unbelievably expensive groceries became.

As the prices went up, I bought less and less meat. And then I switched to baloney. When in Alaska, eat baloney.

There was a reprieve from baloney when we got to Anchorage, and grocery prices became more reasonable, but the reprieve was only temporary as we headed back into the wilderness.

Here’s a baloney-related side trip – Newfoundlanders love baloney! (Newfoundland is the 10th province in Canada, on an island, with a very unique history, culture and tradition. It is also absolutely beautiful and you should definitely put it on your travel list)....

Back to the story. We spent 5 weeks in Newfoundland last summer, and baloney is considered to be one of Newfoundland’s ‘national’ dishes. (Bonus points to anyone who can tell me how a ‘province’ can have a ‘national’ dish.)

I’m decidedly not a fan of baloney – I don’t completely blame Alaska for that, but it might be a factor – but I was determined that at least once during our time in Newfoundland we would cook baloney. And then I looked at the price! I was not paying $7.99 for baloney! We went back to legumes and veg.

Now what about Iceland? We spent 5 weeks in Iceland, and I don’t think we ate out once. Food in Iceland is extremely expensive, and one way to be able to stay longer is to eat as cheaply as possible.

Grocery store shopping in Iceland can cause pretty severe sticker shock, as I would cross one item after another off my shopping list. I’m not paying that!, I’d exclaim.

Guess what the cheapest vegetable we could find in Iceland, other than potatoes and onions, was? Cabbage. Did you know that red cabbage, sliced, is actually excellent raw? The way you would normally eat carrot sticks with your lunch? That’s how we ate sliced cabbage. A head of cabbage lasts forever! There is so much food value in just one head. We carried a big bag of it in our cooler, and had sliced cabbage with every tail gate meal.

How do I feel about sliced cabbage now? I love its economy, and how it helped us to spend 5 weeks in Iceland.

In the end, if you want to travel, you make your choices. And I’ll choose cabbage or baloney every time – except in Newfoundland. $7.99! That’s madness!

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Travelling with my eyes wide open

In a few weeks, I’ll be getting on a plane, and re-entry the world of the tourist economy. I’m reminded of the big questions that I asked myself when I returned from my last trip. This piece, which is part of a larger series that I wrote about souvenirs and what they really mean, is, in a way, the origin story of The Travel Paradox.

I’ve included piece as a link so that you will also have access to the footnotes and links. I hope you’ll take a moment to read it.

Speaking of ‘origin stories’

I’m currently reading Lights to Guide me Home by , and I was surprised to read a story of Meghan’s childhood that was so very similar to mine. It was about a cold basement and stacks and stacks of National Geographic magazines.

I just had to repost this story that I wrote about how my love of National Geographic and how I feel like that is what made me a traveller at heart.

Thanks for spending some time here. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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I also want to take a moment to acknowledge and thank people who have shown support for The Travel Paradox over the last few weeks.

Thanks for the restacks! • •

Thanks for recommending The Travel Paradox! • •

Thanks for the excellent comments! • • •

JL Orr
The Travel Paradox and Jumble of Sea Glass

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass

What should I wear when I visit Paris?, is a common question asked by North Americans before their first visit. Parisiennes are known to be beautiful and effortlessly well-dressed, and we North Americans don’t want to stand out like a sore thumb.

You can google ‘what to wear when you visit Paris’ and you’ll find reams and scores of videos and blogs with so many lists of to-dos and not-to-dos. Simple.

When I visited Paris for the first time it was 2012. I don’t think I googled ‘what to wear when you visit Paris’. I imagine I got my fashion advice from the Lonely Planet or maybe Rick Steves. It seems the two bits of advice I picked up were:

1. Wear a scarf, artfully tied (who do they think they are kidding?) and

2. Avoid bright colours.

Spoiler alert: every current list STILL includes this advice, and North Americans still always look like tourists when they visit Paris.

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I visited Paris in January. Compared to the temperatures I had left behind in the Canadian Rockies, Paris was balmy. It was grey and drizzly most of the time, and occasionally sunny but brisk. I loved it.

The winter of 2011/12 in the Rockies was cold with an incredible amount of snow fall. For at least a month prior to my departure, the road to the nearest international airport (3 hours away) was closed more than it was open. As a result, I remember that I left for Calgary 3 days ahead of schedule, because the road was open then, and there was no guarantee I would be able to get out if I waited.

I took the Greyhound; partly because it was efficient, but mostly because it was too risky for my partner to drive me to Calgary. There was just too much risk that the road would close again and he wouldn’t be able to get home. And yes, driving 3 hours there and then 3 hours back was not that unusual. We did ‘day trips’ to Calgary all the time.

Skipping ahead in my story, when I flew back into Calgary 3 weeks later, I landed in the middle of a fearsome snow storm. The whole city was shut down. I woke up early that first morning with plans to get on the first Greyhound out of town. Again, nobody was coming to pick me up. The risk was too high. Back then, we all had jobs and couldn’t risk being stuck in Calgary due to road closure.

Sometimes the trip to and from the airport involves the most adventure (whiteout conditions, avalanche risk, roads closed for accidents), but I was prepared – proper coat, proper footwear.

I tell you all this because it seriously affected my ability to dress in a manner that would not immediately signal my tourist status. Or at least, this is my excuse. While Paris might be cool and wet, the Canadian Rockies are cold and snowy. And travelling with only a backpack (my first time attempting this luggage method) meant I was very restricted on what I could carry.

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You know on Facebook how you get those ‘Remember when’ prompts, and they show you a picture from 14 years ago? The picture I was shown last week was from 2012. I had just come out of the Musée de l’Orangerie at closing time. I had just had an hour to myself with the Water Lilies by Claude Monet.1 I was brimming with happiness at the opportunity for solitary communion with such incredible works of art that I was inspired to take a selfie.2

Seeing this photo from ancient times reminded me that I had recently taken another selfie, and that it was oddly similar, despite being 14 years later.

Facebook caption: My first trip to Paris. My last trip to Calgary. Strangely similar hairstyle, and very possibly the same jacket. What can I say? I’m a classic. I’m retro?

I’ll tell you a secret, that I didn’t tell Facebook. On further reflection, I realized that this is not the same coat. The coat I wore to Paris was the exact same coat, but in a pale grey blue. I was following that advice: avoid bright colours. My fuschia coloured puffy jacket would have immediately caused me to be recognized as a tourist, no? So naive. My very existence screamed tourist, but we live in hope.

I also wore waterproof insulated runners in a very mild grey colour. At least that is how I remember them. Wait! I just remembered that I still have them! I finally wore through the soles two winters ago, but I love them so much I haven’t disposed of them yet. Yes – they are grey, but they also have fuschia pink on them! What is understated about that!? Another failure to blend in.

Here’s the truth. You can play at dressing like a Parisienne. You can imagine yourself looking like a Parisienne. But you will never fool a Parisienne.

But maybe, just maybe, you can convince yourself that the Parisienne you are trying to impress googled ‘how to look like a Canadian’ before their trip to Alberta, and is now terribly impressed by your Canadian fashion sense, but I suspect not.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my time in London and Paris that winter 14 years ago. That was the first and last time I travelled outside of Canada on my own. I’m preparing to solo travel again this Spring. I’m a completely different person now. At least I think I am.

I’m once again puzzling over what to wear when I travel this spring. I’m once again putting my whole life in a backpack. And I’m once again trying not to look completely like a tourist while I’m there.

I’m building a capsule wardrobe based on neutral grey, but despite my best efforts, that fuschia is still breaking through. I am who I am. I’ve decided that my scarf for this trip will be knit in glorious alpaca and silk in the brightest fuschia I’ve ever seen. It’s on my knitting needles right now.

I’m a completely different person now. But some things never change.

This is the first in a series of articles contrasting my London and Paris solo trip of 2012 with my upcoming solo trip to Perú.

I am embracing solo travel, and living my new motto for 2026:

Pay attention
Be astonished
Tell about it

Mary Oliver, Instructions for Living a Life

JL Orr

Home base: The Okanagan Valley of British Columbia in Canada
Jumble of Sea Glass and The Travel Paradox

Jumble of Sea Glass

My musings, observations, epiphanies and random chat about things that amuse me, intrigue me, and challenge me.

By JL Orr | Paradox & Sea Glass