When I think about travel, I don’t think in terms of itineraries or checklists. I think in terms of anchors. Each city I imagine visiting becomes an entry in my living archive, a place where resonance and paradox meet. Some of these journeys are shared with my dad, some are solo, some are comfort returns, and some are playful pilgrimages. Together they form a constellation of cities I’d like to visit, each one carrying its own rhythm, its own meaning, its own inscription in the ledger of my life.
Dublin is the first city that comes to mind. For me, Dublin is a writer’s pilgrimage. Joyce, Yeats, Wilde—their shadows still linger in the streets and pubs, and I want to walk where they walked, hear the cadence of Irish voices, and inscribe Dublin into my archive as a city of words. For my dad, Dublin is also a pilgrimage, but his angle is genealogy. He sees Dublin through parish records and family names, tracing lineage and ancestry. I don’t call myself Irish, even though I carry Irish heritage. I don’t call myself English either, though that heritage is there too. I love both countries, but I don’t wear their identities as labels. Instead, I treat Dublin as a place where literature and lineage overlap, where my dad and I can share a journey even as we approach it from different angles. Dublin becomes both archive and family tree, a city where words and lineage intertwine.
Key West is the counterpoint to Dublin. Where Dublin offers gray skies and literary labyrinths, Key West offers sunlight, ocean breeze, and Hemingway’s myth. Hemingway’s house, the six-toed cats, the ocean light that shaped his prose—all of it feels like a pilgrimage to the blurred line between writing and living. My dad is drawn to Hemingway too, so Key West becomes another shared journey. For me, it’s about inscribing Hemingway’s paradox into my archive. For my dad, it’s about feeling the myth of the man. Together, Key West becomes a sunlit echo of Dublin, two cities bound by literature, one steeped in history and the other drenched in ocean light.
But not all my pilgrimages are shared. Some are solo sabbaticals, places I imagine visiting on my own, inscribing rhythm and paradox without companionship. Finland holds three such cities: Helsinki, Tampere, and Rovaniemi. Helsinki is a sabbatical city, a place of libraries, winter markets, and architectural rhythm. Oodi Library, Rock Church, the cadence of winter—all of it feels like a place where I could inscribe solitude into my archive. Yet I also imagine Bryn joining me in Helsinki for a few days. With Bryn there, Helsinki shifts from solitude to companionship. The library becomes a duet, the markets a shared ritual, the Rock Church a space where companionship deepens the echo. Helsinki holds both independence and melody, showing how a city can contain solitude and shared presence at once. Tampere, by contrast, is a solo pilgrimage. Its industrial history turned cultural hub, its paradox of machinery and art side by side—this is a city I want to walk through alone, inscribing paradox into my archive without distraction. Rovaniemi, too, is a solo pilgrimage. The Arctic circle, Santa Claus Village, northern lights—myth and landscape converging in a way that feels like a ritual of winter, a place where I can inscribe myth into my archive without companionship.
Ensenada is different. It’s not a new pilgrimage but a comfort return. I’ve been there before, and I want to go back. The people are wonderful, the food is fresh, and it’s affordable. Ensenada is less about literature or genealogy and more about resonance—kindness, warmth, and the joy of being welcomed back. It’s a comfort anchor, a city I return to not for novelty but for continuity, inscribing generosity into my archive.
The Outer Banks in North Carolina add another layer to my constellation. This trip isn’t about literature, genealogy, or even companionship. It’s about refreshment. I want to walk on the beach, feel the Atlantic wind, and buy Cheerwine. Simple pleasures, sand and waves, cherry cola. The Outer Banks become a pilgrimage of taste and tide, a continuity stop in my constellation, balancing the literary pilgrimages with a ritual of refreshment.
Atlanta adds a corporate-cultural pilgrimage to the mix. I want to visit the World of Coca-Cola, to experience the story of how a single drink became a global icon. Tasting sodas from around the world, seeing the vault that holds the secret formula, walking through exhibits about Coca-Cola’s history—Atlanta becomes a pilgrimage of pop culture and taste, less about literature or genealogy, more about how a brand became an archive. It balances Dublin’s literary archive and Key West’s Hemingway myth with a corporate-cultural anchor, inscribing pop culture into my constellation.
Houston is a rooted city for me, a place I go often, but even rooted cities can hold new pilgrimages. I’ve never visited Space Center Houston or the Kemah Boardwalk, and I want to. Space Center Houston is a pilgrimage to exploration—NASA’s history, rockets, the dream of space travel. Kemah Boardwalk is its counterpoint: rides, seafood, Gulf breeze. Together they add new dimensions to a city I already know well, transforming Houston from rooted comfort into rooted renewal. Houston becomes both familiar and fresh, a place of family comfort and new adventures waiting to be inscribed.
Mexico City and Cabo San Lucas expand my constellation further. Mexico City is a pilgrimage of culture—history museums, ancient ruins, colonial architecture, modern art. The National Museum of Anthropology, the Frida Kahlo Museum, the layered history of the city—all of it feels like a place where history and creativity converge. Cabo San Lucas, by contrast, is a coastal pilgrimage. Beaches, Pacific horizon, ocean air. Cabo balances Mexico City’s density with simplicity, offering rest alongside resonance. Together, Mexico City and Cabo inscribe both culture and comfort into my archive, urban history and coastal respite side by side.
Tokyo adds a playful pilgrimage to the constellation. Specifically, Coffee Elementary School—a café founded by a former teacher who treats coffee, bread, and sweets as “textbooks.” For me, it’s a writer’s pilgrimage wrapped in play, a place where stories and rituals converge. For Chason and me, it’s a companionship anchor, a place to inscribe stories together in a city that thrives on paradox. Tokyo becomes a playful archive, a city where literature and companionship meet in the ritual of coffee.
When I step back and look at this constellation, I see categories emerging. Literary pilgrimages: Dublin, Key West, Tokyo. Genealogical echoes: Dublin with my dad. Companion pilgrimages: Helsinki with Bryn. Solo sabbaticals: Tampere, Rovaniemi. Comfort returns: Ensenada. Refreshment rituals: Outer Banks. Corporate-cultural pilgrimages: Atlanta, Houston. Cultural and coastal Mexico: Mexico City, Cabo. Each city is an entry in my ledger, inscribed with its own resonance, its own paradox, its own meaning.
What strikes me is how these cities balance each other. Dublin and Key West are opposites—gray skies and sunlight, lineage and myth—but both are bound by literature. Helsinki, Tampere, and Rovaniemi are winter cities, sabbatical pilgrimages of rhythm and myth, but Helsinki shifts into companionship when Bryn joins me. Ensenada and the Outer Banks are comfort and refreshment, returns and rituals that balance the intensity of literary and sabbatical pilgrimages. Atlanta and Houston are corporate-cultural anchors, inscribing pop culture and exploration into my archive. Mexico City and Cabo balance urban density with coastal simplicity. Tokyo adds play, a café that treats coffee as a textbook, companionship inscribed into ritual.
Together, these cities form a constellation that reflects the paradoxes I love. Shared journeys and solo ones. Literature and lineage. Comfort and refreshment. Corporate culture and coastal respite. Play and pilgrimage. Each city is an anchor, inscribed into my archive not as a checklist but as a resonance. Travel, for me, is not about claiming identity or ticking boxes. It’s about inscribing meaning, honoring paradox, and building a ledger of pilgrimages that reflect both companionship and independence, both heritage and ambiguity, both comfort and play.
I don’t know exactly what my English and Irish heritage means to me, but I know it means something. I love both countries, but I don’t call myself English or Irish. Instead, I treat Dublin as a pilgrimage site, a place where literature and lineage overlap. I don’t know exactly what Ensenada means to me, but I know it means something. The people are wonderful, the food is fresh, and it’s affordable. I don’t know exactly what Tokyo means to me, but I know it means something. Coffee Elementary School is playful, paradoxical, and resonant. Each city carries meaning even if I can’t name it fully. Each city becomes an entry in my archive, inscribed with resonance and ambiguity.
Travel, for me, is not about closure. It’s about inscription. Each city I imagine visiting becomes a pilgrimage, a comfort return, a refreshment ritual, a corporate-cultural anchor, a companionship duet, or a solo sabbatical. Together they form a constellation, a ledger of cities I’d like to visit, each one carrying its own rhythm, its own meaning, its own inscription in the archive of my life.
Scored by Copilot, conducted by Leslie Lanagan
Stories That Are All True 