Captivating Cambridge

Market Cake, AirBNB, and a Magical Piece of Cheese

The Beatles Suite at The Edgewater Seattle

For a hotel and Beatles junkie, this was pretty much as good as it gets.

Nessie, Inverness, and the Left Side of the Road

Exploring The Highlands of Scotland.

London Calling

18 Hours with Her Majesty

The Andersons of St Andrews

On a cool, misty, and properly Scottish afternoon in The Home of Golf, we passed through the ancient gates of the St. Andrews cemetery. There are few places in the world where the word 'ancient' almost seems inadequate, but this is surely one of them.

The St Andrews cathedral was built on these grounds in 1158 and was once one of the largest churches in the known world. The cathedral fell into ruin during the Scottish Reformation of the 16th century, but portions of the once magnificent structure still stand. The ground where the cathedral once stood is now the town's cemetery, and as one might expect in St. Andrews there's a wealth of golf royalty laid to rest within these walls.

And while I had waited a short lifetime to leave a golf ball at the grave of Old Tom Morris, there was one stone in particular that I needed to find. A stone that the overwhelming majority of visitors would pass without second thought, yet one with a unique, if somewhat tragic, story to tell.

Just a chip shot from the monument to Allan Robertson - the patriarch of golf in Scotland - there is a small, somewhat faded gravestone for an infant child named David Anderson. The child's father was Jamie Anderson, a winner of three consecutive Claret Jugs in the 1870's. The child's grandfather was also David Anderson - better known as "Auld Da" - who spent a brief time as Keeper of the Green at The Old Course, but is best known for operating golf's first Halfway House. From his cart on the 4th hole, Auld Da served Ginger Beer - or perhaps something stronger - and snacks to golfer's in the midst of their round. He became such a fixture of the St. Andrews links, the 4th hole of the Old Course is named Ginger Beer in his honor.
Auld Da and Old Tom enjoy a Ginger Beer

Upon their own deaths, both men were laid to rest in the same plot as little David, without any kind of marker. Which raises an inescapable question...

How was it that arguably the finest golfer of his time and his legendary father came to be buried in what amounts to an unmarked grave?
Jamie Anderson

Later in life, Jamie fell on hard times and soon found himself living in the local poorhouse, his Open Championship glory an all but forgotten piece of history. When Auld Da passed away, Jamie had his father buried alongside little David in the family plot, but likely could not afford to place a marker for Auld Da. When Jamie himself passed away a few years later, he was also laid to rest in the plot without a gravestone.

Both men deserve better.

After years of working through approvals from the town of St. Andrews as well as the Anderson family, a crowdfunding campaign has been launched to honor Jamie and Auld Da with a stone of their own in the cemetery. Noted St. Andrews historian and author, Roger McStravick, is leading the campaign which can be found at the banner below.

For reasons that I can't quite pin down, the story of Jamie Anderson has struck a chord with me. There's just something about a three-time Open Champion resting in an unmarked grave that seems... wrong. History, it seems, is awfully cruel and forgetful at times, with the difference between eternal glory and relative anonymity being exceptionally small.

Jamie and Auld Da Anderson were far more than footnotes in the history of golf, and it is my deepest hope that visitors to The Home of Golf will soon come to learn this.

Enjoy Your Stay

A Day in the Life in Liverpool

Growing up, I really wasn't much of a reader. The irony of which is not lost on me, given the amount of hours I've poured into this website where reading is, you know, a fairly integral part. Oh sure, I read the required summer books for school - most of them, anyway - and The Great Gatsby remains my favorite work of fiction by authors not named Rowling or Brown.

So how it was that the 17 year old me came away with a 500 page book on The Beatles from the city's public library is a bit of a mystery. Maybe I was trying to impress a girl. It's definitely the kind of strategy that would have made sense to the two-time geography-bee-winning captain of the golf team. But alas, exactly how I came to temporarily possess - and finish - the book A Day in the Life has been lost in the cobwebs of my brain. What hasn't been lost, however, is the treasure trove of useless information I learned about The Beatles, which I like to whip out at parties from time to time. 

For example...

The song A Day in the Life itself was banned in Britain because of the line "I'd love to turn you on." It also illustrates the juxtaposition between Lennon and McCartney better than any other song in their collaboration. There's John's melodramatic, somewhat trippy, rendering of stories he literally pulled from the local newspaper versus Paul's happy-go-lucky account of a poor chap who's just struggling to get to work on time. And then there's the instrumental, which somehow manages to sound like everything and nothing at the same time. 

Beyond the abundance of cocktail party factoids, the love for The Beatles which sprang from the pages of A Day in the Life has taken me to some great places. From Paul McCartney in the pouring rain at Atlanta's Piedmont Park, to traipsing across Central Park after a blizzard to visit Strawberry Fields, to the masterwork of Cirque du Soleil and Sir George Martin - the band's longtime producer - in Las Vegas, The Beatles have figured prominently in some of my fondest travel memories.

After my week-long introduction to Cambridge, our original plan was to head north to Scotland for a visit to Edinburgh and St. Andrews. But almost from the start, something didn't feel quite right. Recalling the geography from my read-maps-for-fun days, I knew that the band's hometown of Liverpool was only a slight detour off the path north. The solution to this dilemma was pretty clear: we shaved a night off both Edinburgh and St. Andrews and added Liverpool to the mix.

All I really knew about Liverpool to that point - other than its location on a map - was that it was home to both the world's greatest band and the world's lousiest football team. My fellow golfers may question the rationale of dropping a night in St. Andrews, but for yours truly, this was an absolute no-brainer. The Home of Golf and The Home of The Beatles in the same trip? Sign me up for that..Every. Single. Time.
The clubhouse at Hoylake

Another advantage of heading to Liverpool was it gave me a good excuse to pop out to Hoylake and the Royal Liverpool Golf Club. It was here that Bobby Jones took home the Claret Jug in his Grand Slam year, and fans of Tiger Woods will remember Hoylake as the course where the Big Cat won The Open playing with only his 2-iron. OK, a slight exaggeration, but only slight. That 2-iron is proudly displayed inside the Royal Liverpool clubhouse, as well as enough golf memorabilia to fill a museum. If you're a golfer and find yourself in Liverpool - even if traveling without clubs, like yours truly - take the 20 minute train ride to Hoylake... You'll be glad you did.

While I was marveling at Walter Hagen's mashie niblick, MJ was back in Liverpool touring the city aboard its hop-on hop-off bus. I've always held a certain level of disdain for these rolling tourist delivery systems, but I once shared a similar view of roasted brussel sprouts. Now I devour those by the bowlful. So I kept the eyerolls to a minimum and soon realized there was an unexpected advantage of her journey on the Big Red Machine... She received a general overview of the city, and now knew exactly what we should see that afternoon.
Red Rocks Beach at Hoylake looking to Wales

We started by trekking to the Church of St. Luke, also known as the "Bombed Out Church." Built in the early 1800's, the church was burned during the Liverpool Blitz in 1941, leaving only the exterior shell behind. It stands as a unique, if spooky, memorial to those lost during the war.

Next it was on to Liverpool's Chinatown...

Followed by a flying visit to the city's whopper of a cathedral, which naturally was closed for a private ceremony.

Next it was on to the shores of the River Mersey and Liverpool's bustling waterfront. There we stopped in for a drink at the former headquarters of White Star Line, the operator of the ship where Jack & Rose fell tragically in love. The old world charm of the building, paired with the view from the aptly named rooftop bar - Carpathia - made for an hour or so well spent.

At last, it was time to begin the Magical Mystery Tour of sorts which brought us to Liverpool in the first place. First stop was just a short stroll away on the Albert Docks: The Beatles Story. Whether you're an uber-fan chocked full of useless factoids, or just someone that thinks Love Me Do is a catchy tune, this interactive museum is worth every penny.

I say 'interactive' because every entry comes with an audio guide, which provided a ton of great info on each exhibit without the annoying side-effect of having to read.

By now it was time for something sweet and the afternoon Costa. That just doesn't roll off the tongue as well as "afternoon Starbucks," but nevertheless... For the sweet portion, we happened across a market near The Beatles Story, where I encountered a double chocolate brownie that would have given Market Cake a run for its money.

Although there are loads of Beatles related sites to see in Liverpool, one of the most popular also happens to be the newest. In 2015, the city debuted a statue of the four lads strolling thru their hometown, and the spot has quickly become selfie central. It's reminiscent of a famous photo of the group walking down the street, though I suppose with these guys one has to be more specific than that.

If Liverpool is considered the St. Andrews of all things Beatles, then the Cavern Club would be the Old Course. Early in their career, The Cavern Club hosted The Beatles onstage nearly 300 times, as well as a number of historically insignificant acts like The Rolling Stones, The Who, Queen, Oasis, and Sir Elton John. It also happened to be the one and only entry on our itinerary in Liverpool. 

Even though this isn't technically the original Cavern Club (that one was filled in to build a subway line) the journey underground feels as though you've stepped back into another era. From the sound of Strawberry Fields coming from the stage, to the names of the acts that performed here on the famous wall behind it, the Cavern is a brick and mortar tribute to days gone by. Although that may sound like the Cavern is living on borrowed time, the crowd told a different story...

While the Ed-Sheeran-hating guy onstage belted out Glass Onion, I took a survey across the club and pegged the average age of our fellow Cavern-goers at roughly 58. Sure there were a few Millenials milling about, but they were far outnumbered by folks who'd been drawing Social Security for a decade or more. Across all generations, the place was packed with people drinking, singing, dancing, and just generally having the night of their life. As it turns out, nostalgia is a pretty good business.

Our one night at the Cavern Club turned into two, but there would not be a third as we had a Ticket To Ride the next morning. As we emerged from the beneath the streets of Liverpool one last time, I couldn't help but wonder... How was it that a rock & roll band from Britain, which broke up a decade before I was born, had managed to play a role in so many of my fondest travel memories? Even removed from the numerous pints and excessive electronic noise, I'm still not sure I know the answer. What was clear, however, was that our time in Liverpool had definitely made the grade.

Enjoy Your Stay

Captivating Cambridge: Scones, Cathedrals, and Punting, Oh My!

"Wear your tennis shoes. It's a 6 mile walk round-trip."

Nothing about this text surprised me. If the first 24 hours in Cambridge were any indication, 6 miles of walking was going to be a light day. But in the early morning haze, before my daily coffee walk could offset the lingering effects of Greene King IPA, I was still a little puzzled.

The night before, MJ told me that we were starting the day with tea and scones at a place called The Orchard. I distinctly remembered her describing what promised to be the finest scones I'd ever tasted. I distinctly remembered her describing the clotted cream and the different varieties of local jams. I distinctly remembered her describing The Orchard itself, and how we'd take our tea among the apple trees. And I distinctly remembered her describing the pub we would hit afterwards for some midday fortification.

I did not remember her describing a 6 mile trek.

As we set off through the fens, along the same path I'd partially walked the day before, it all started coming back to me. Somewhere between clotted cream and afternoon pubbing I had managed to tune out the distance involved. Not that it mattered, because even at a distance of 60 miles, it still would have been worth every step.

The Orchard was exactly as MJ had described it: A charming tea room in the village of Granchester, whose peaceful apple orchard has been a popular destination for locals and Cambridge students since 1897. In that time, The Orchard has been visited by everyone from Stephen Hawking and A.A. Milne, to King George VI and his grandson the Prince of Wales.

From my shady lounger beneath an apple tree, time seemed to move a little slower, giving way to a cat nap which rivaled my snooze the day before in the Botanical Garden. On the other hand, my tastebuds were moving at Warp 6 thanks to the deliciousness on my plate that was even better than advertised. Whether you're wearing a Nobel Prize, the Crown Jewels, or a worn out pair of Toms, at The Orchard you come for the atmosphere, but stay for the scones.

After a short stroll to The Green Man - your run of the mill pub that predates the Civil War, found in your run of the mill building that predates the Revolution...

We wandered back to town, past your run of the mill game of adult bumper ball soccer...

And your run of the mill family of swans...

Before ending at your run of the mill giant skillet of mashed potatoes.

Call it your run of the mill Cambridge afternoon.

The next morning we took a short train ride to Ely, a town whose history reads something like a collection of credit scores. Founded in 673, the village was destroyed by Danish invaders in 870, and then rebuilt by the Bishop of Winchester in 970. All of which makes me wonder how American historians manage to sit through conferences with their U.K. colleagues. It must be such a drag listening to them toss around all of that three-digit-year history so nonchalantly. But I digress...

The Ely Cathedral is older than both Notre Dame and Westminster Abbey and is no less majestic than its illustrious counterparts. The history of the Cathedral reads a little like the town itself: Built in 1083, the building suffered a calamity in 1322 when the central tower collapsed into the sanctuary below. The tower was rebuilt in the shape of an octagon, this time using enormous wooden beams. This no doubt gave the Cathedral the distinction of being the first and largest Tinker Toy building on the planet.

Climbing to the top of the tower is both terrifying and thrilling. There's a few spiral stone staircases which are barely wider than the average human, doors that would cause my 5 year old nephew to duck, and the general knowledge that the wooden beams suspending you in the air are roughly 800 years old. If you can manage to block all of that out, however, the views from the top one of a kind.

Safely back on solid ground, the next few days were a collection of little moments which all seemed to fit in the category of quintessential Cambridge. Such as...

The pub that we entered by hopping a wall in a cemetery...

The mini-donuts and fireworks at "The Big Event"...

The elusive Hot Numbers Coffee Stout...

The risotto with a view at Galleria...

And the view from Great St. Mary's Church.

But of all the quintessentially Cambridge activities, there was one written in Sharpie at the top of my to-list: Punting.

One part wooden jon boat, another part Venetian gondola, punting along the River Cam has been a tradition in the city for over a hundred years. In a place like Cambridge, that's still a relatively young tradition, but one look at the number of punts gliding down the river and it's clear this is arguably the city's most popular attraction.

It's certainly one of the most entertaining.

Think of it like the Cambridge version of the Living with The Land ride at Epcot. Except instead of the narrator talking about hydroponic gardens, the punt captain is telling a variety of tales about the city and its famous colleges. Deciphering whether those stories are actually true or not is half the fun, and becomes even more entertaining if you've brought the proper provisions. Like, for example, a Chelsea Bun and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

When MJ asked what I wanted to see when I joined her in Cambridge, my answer was pretty simple: I wanted to see her Cambridge. The city that has become part of her identity, the city that she loves more than any other, and the city that she longs to return to the moment she leaves. From Market Cake and life changing scones to a magical piece of cheese and punting, I came away from Cambridge with a great sample of what makes the city special. And yet, it was still just a sample.

Enjoy Your Stay

Captivating Cambridge: Market Cake, AirBNB, and a Magical Piece of Cheese

"You had Market Cake without me? That was against the rules!"

I knew all of the nicknames. Market Cake. Bicycle Bakery. Lemonade Guy. Falafel Truck. The list of MJ's favorite purveyors of delicious bites in Cambridge was anything but short, yet she had plans to introduce me to them all during my first visit to the city she's called home for 2 of the last 13 months.

After exploring Cambridge both on my own and on foot to the tune of 9 miles, I just happened to find myself in the city's outdoor market with a ravenous appetite. I scarfed down a hearty fried egg sandwich from one of the vendors and then roamed the stalls in search of something sweet. Soon I stumbled onto a booth serving up a variety of cakes and gooey brownies, with the first bite of the latter releasing every ounce of serotonin in my body.

It wasn't until much later that I realized my egregious error: This was Market Cake.

Should I have clued in that a guy selling cake in the market might actually be the dude affectionately known as Market Cake? Absolutely. Was I sorry? 

Not in the slightest.

Thanks to this introduction, I realized pretty quickly that Cambridge was my kind of place. Any town where a guy pedals the avenues selling sweets from a table strapped to his bicycle is certainly OK by me. But this was just the beginning of the long list of things that I, too, would come to love about this city.

For starters, Cambridge provided me with the first real excuse to try AirBNB. As a self-proclaimed hotel junkie, AirBNB was never really on my "to do" list. That is until I tried to find a hotel in Cambridge on the same weekend that prospective students flock to town to tour the university.

Enter my gracious host, Rikako, and her flat on Orchard Street.

Any trepidation to the notion of crashing in a stranger's guestroom vanished when I told MJ the address of where I'd be staying. As it turned out, Orchard was among her favorite streets in the city, and it was easy to see why. Orchard, it seemed, was the very definition of charming.

The same could be said of Rikako and my home for the first three nights in town. Besides the great location, the room and bath were clean and comfortable and I slept like a log each evening. Most importantly, the experience showed me the beauty of AirBNB, and my pocketbook was certainly thankful. If you're traveling solo and need a place in Cambridge, be sure to look up Rikako. Something tells me that she and I will cross paths again in the future.

The next day's 5 a.m. sunrise brought with it the beginning of my solo expedition of Cambridge. MJ's advice for the day was pretty simple: Go get lost. 

So I did...

As appealing as the idea of wandering the city aimlessly was, there was one place that I knew had to be my first stop. You see, for over a year I'd endured the stories and pictures of the famous Chelsea Buns at Fitzbillies. Given my affection for all things pastry, there was no question what I was having for breakfast. That is until I actually arrived at Fitzbillies and discovered they also served pancakes with Chelsea Bun syrup. Sooo I had both.

Sufficiently fueled by a mixture of sugar and caffeine, I followed a path to the south along the River Cam and soon found myself wandering through a series of fields known as the "fens." Once an expansive marsh, the fens were drained centuries ago to provide more arable farmland for Cambridgeshire and the surrounding counties. Today they make for an interesting green-space in the city, with livestock roaming just as freely as the humans.

After dodging cow patties in the fens, I made my way over to King's Parade where I dodged an even greater abundance of tourists. But enduring the crowds was a small price to pay for the rare opportunity to visit many of the historic colleges that make up Cambridge University. From manuscripts by Sir Issac Newton - and a descendant of his famous apple tree - to the mind-boggling King's Chapel, the colleges are one spectacular sight after another. And yet I came away feeling as if I'd only scratched the surface.

As morning turned to afternoon, the need for both my mid-day iced coffee, and an escape from the busloads of tourists and prospective students, became difficult to ignore. I found both just down the street at Hot Numbers and the Fitzwilliam Museum. The former served a killer cold brew among the best I've ever had, which I later discovered is used for an equally delicious coffee stout. The Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, provided a complimentary and quiet retreat from the crowds with a host of comfy chairs to soak in their Impressionist masterpieces.

Fully relaxed but once again amped with iced coffee, I set off for the Cambridge Botanical Garden. It was here that I finally embraced MJ's advice and got fully lost on the paths that weave their way through this oasis. It was also here that I decided my legs needed some rest, and a random bench next to a fountain and under a tree seemed like just the place. 45 minutes later, I woke up from one of the most epic naps in history.

Although dinner time was fast approaching, it was about now that I made the ill-fated detour that led to the so-greasy-it-soaks-through-the-bag brownies known as Market Cake. But as amazing as the Market Cake and Chelsea Buns might have been, nothing could have prepared me for the amazing-ness which awaited at The Free Press pub.

But first, a word on the pub itself...

The Free Press has been around for roughly 125 years and gets its name from a short stint as a printing house for a local newspaper. While I'm not much on phrases like 'hidden gem' and 'proper pub,' both would aptly apply here. The Press also happens to be an office of sorts for MJ during her sojourns in Cambridge, and during my initial visit to her home away from home she had me try something which made me question everything I knew to be right in the world.

It looked like chicken, tasted like chicken, and had the texture of chicken. Only it wasn't chicken... It was cheese. I quickly learned that this slice of voodoo magic was called Halloumi, prompting me to place an international call to a specialty grocer back home to see if they carried it. They do, not that this news kept me from consuming my body weight in Halloumi over the next week as if I'd never see it again.

The sun was fading over the chimneys of Orchard Street as this marathon day came to a close. I'd explored and ate my way from one end of Cambridge to the other, getting to know a little of this city that is dear to MJ's heart. As I slowly sauntered down the empty street, comfortably stuffed with Halloumi and Greene King IPA, I was pretty sure that I was starting to get it. There would be much more to see and eat in the coming days, but it was already plain to see that Cambridge is a truly special place.

Enjoy Your Stay

Adventures with Uncle Deej - Bug on the High Seas

I've said it before and I'll say it again... Becoming an uncle for the first time was one of the most rewarding items on the benefits package included in the contract with my wife. Over the last decade, we've had some great adventures with our niece, from birthday celebrations at Cirque du Soliel to a somewhat impromptu trip to Disney on Christmas Eve. But now that she's a bona-fide teenager, MJ and I are at last able to treat Bug, as she's affectionately known, to some of the more grand adventures that we've often dreamed about.

For three years running, we've set sail aboard the Brilliance of the Seas during the week of Thanksgiving. This cruise has become a new favorite tradition of ours - one which has sadly come to an end due to Royal Caribbean schedule changes, but I digress. Last year, in between the 47 rounds of putt putt while cruising with our nephew, Old Sport, I slipped into the Next Cruise office and booked another Adventure with Uncle Deej. Only this time, it was Bug's turn.

We waited until the summer to tell Bug there was a trip forthcoming, knowing that a year's worth of anticipation would border on cruel and unusual punishment. Naturally, being the loving uncle that I am, I decided the best way to share where we were heading was through a rudimentary game of Carmen Sandiego. Soon our text thread was filled with near daily requests for clues, which were duly replied with obscure geographic references as well as one lengthy and riveting discussion on latitude and longitude. Given that Bug is exponentially smarter than me, I'm taking the fact that it took many rounds of clues as proof of the game's success.

In what seemed like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, the weeks and months of excitement eventually gave way to the cheesy welcome aboard photograph.

Just as we learned the previous year with Old Sport, cruising with a teenager is a very different world than the one MJ and I are typically accustomed. For starters, I had to lug an entire carry on bag worth of books onto the ship. You see, Bug reads at roughly the pace of a book an hour, so this was just to tide her over during the two sea days. Somewhere among all of those clues, I probably should have told her the ship has a library.

Another key difference... When Old Sport wandered into a gift shop, he'd guilt me into buying an inflatable cruise ship or a Royal Caribbean magic marker. Bug's meanderings, on the other hand, had the potential to be far more costly. I learned this lesson not three minutes after stepping onboard the Brilliance, thanks to her visit to the Next Cruise office to pick up brochures for a 28 day trans-pacific cruise to Australia.

Once I convinced her to put the brochures away, we spent most of the afternoon before cast-off eating exploring our way around the ship. In the year that had passed between visits, I had forgotten just how much I missed the 3pm visit to Cafe Lattitudes.

Shortly after sail away, I learned a couple more valuable lessons about traveling with teenagers. The first is that they have both an aversion to the camera and a spidey-sense that alerts them to employ a host of creative face-covering tactics anytime a picture is being taken. Hence why my camera roll is filled with a variety of photos like this...

The second thing I learned about traveling with teenagers is that their outward displays of excitement are.. shall I say, mostly non-existent. For example.. On our way down to Tampa, Bug mentioned that she really hoped we saw dolphins at some point during the cruise. Wouldn't you know that roughly 10 minutes after cast-off, a group of dolphins came jumping right by the ship. The reaction: A slight shrug of the shoulders. Then there was the much anticipated pass under the Skyway Bridge. Same thing. Although, I probably should have expected that one. The anticipation was really all mine and, after all, it's just a bridge.
Over the next several days, however, I managed to catch a glimpse of countless moments that could have been mistaken for excitement, as well as a number of those elusive hands-free photos. We had one such sighting while waiting on some dock runners in Key West...

Then there was this...

She seemed to take to bartering in Cozumel...

As well as some wacky exfoliation...

And really, who wouldn't smile at this view?..

But nothing brought out that rare teenager excitement quite like her appearance on the morning show. Which bears some explanation...

Every morning, the cruise and activities directors, Jerome and Flavio, aired their own version of the Today Show discussing all of the fun things scheduled that day. During the show, they read various "shout outs" which guests were invited to leave in a box in the atrium. These are usually birthday wishes, random questions, etc. After day one there were no shout-outs submitted, so Jerome and Flavio encouraged guests to "ask us anything." Bug took this as a challenge and proceeded to deposit half a dozen questions, all of which they read the next morning. The next day we were so busy chowing down in Rita's Cantina, she didn't get her questions submitted before the cut-off time. Of course, neither did anyone else, which prompted this response on the next day's morning show...

After exploring Cozumel, we spent the afternoon stalking searching for one of these gents so Bug could make a proper introduction. We eventually found Flavio, who suggested we meet he and Jerome that evening outside of Bug's favorite place...The Next Cruise office. It seemed that this girl, who just a few days before had an aversion to the camera, was now set to make her debut on the small screen.

Her "shout-out" that day?... A request to play Frosty the Snowman on the atrium piano, which Jerome and Flavio were happy to oblige.

As is always the case with these adventures with Bug, to say we were sad to see it come to an end would be an understatement. And as the sun slipped over the horizon for the final time aboard the Brilliance, a famous line from Hamilton played on repeat in my mind.
"Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now."

Then again, any onset of post-trip depression would have to wait for a different day, because another magical adventure was awaiting us back onshore.

Enjoy Your Stay