Category: Notes

  • Somewhere Between Here and There

    Somewhere Between Here and There

    These photos were taken somewhere in Tennessee around 2011.

    I couldn’t tell you exactly where.

    I couldn’t tell you the route, either.

    What I remember is the feeling.

    It was one of those warm summer Saturdays that seemed to have no real beginning or end. The kind where there was nowhere important to be and no reason to rush. A full tank of gas, the windows down, and classic rock coming through the speakers was enough.

    Most people remember destinations.

    I remember roads.

    The older I get, the more I realize that some of my favorite travel memories happened between places. Not in cities or attractions, but on the stretches of highway that connected them. The roads winding through small towns. The bridges that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The farms tucked into the hillsides.

    Back then, there was still a sense of discovery in taking the long way.

    GPS existed, but it hadn’t completely taken over our lives yet. If a road looked interesting, you turned down it. If an old store caught your eye, you slowed down. If a bridge stretched into the distance, you crossed it just to see what was on the other side.

    There wasn’t always a plan.

    Sometimes the road itself was the plan.

    Looking at this photo now, I can’t remember what was around the next bend. I can’t remember where I stopped for lunch or what time I got home.

    I remember the green hills.

    I remember the sunlight.

    I remember feeling like the day had all the time in the world.

    There’s something about Tennessee backroads that seems designed to make you slow down. The hills hide what’s ahead. Every curve reveals something new. A barn. A creek. A forgotten church. A place that feels unchanged for decades.

    The interstate gets you there faster.

    The backroads give you something to remember.

    Places like this used to be everywhere.

    Maybe they still are.

    The kind of store that looks like it has served the same community for generations. The kind of place where locals know each other by name and visitors are immediately obvious.

    You don’t find places like that when you’re in a hurry.

    You find them when you leave enough room in the day to wander.

    And then there’s this photo.

    If I had to pick one image that captures the entire trip, it would probably be this one.

    Not because it’s a great photograph.

    Because it instantly brings back the feeling.

    A warm summer day. The road stretching ahead. Classic rock on the radio. A cold bottle of Sun Drop within reach.

    Nothing extraordinary was happening.

    That’s probably why I remember it.

    The older I get, the more I appreciate those ordinary days. The ones that weren’t planned around milestones or celebrations. The ones that didn’t seem important at the time.

    Just a Saturday.

    Just a road.

    Just somewhere between here and there.

    And somehow, years later, those are the days that stay with you.

  • New Orleans Never Really Leaves You

    New Orleans Never Really Leaves You

    New Orleans never really dried out while we were there.

    The streets stayed damp. Clouds hung low over the buildings. Even the light felt slower somehow. I kept waiting for the weather to turn, but after a while the rain and gray skies stopped feeling disappointing and started feeling like part of the city itself.

    New Orleans didn’t feel polished.

    It felt lived in.

    Not just the buildings — everything. The bars. The sidewalks. The music drifting out of open doors. Even the smell of food hanging in the air block after block felt permanent somehow, like the city had been simmering for decades and never really cooled off.

    And maybe that’s why it lingers.

    Not because it’s loud all the time.

    But because underneath the noise there’s something older, slower, and heavier than most places are willing to be anymore.

    There were louder moments, of course. Neon signs glowing through rain-streaked windows. Crowded bars. Music somewhere around every corner.

    But the parts I remember most now are quieter than that.

    Walking through the drizzle without really hurrying anywhere. Passing old brick buildings and balconies that looked unchanged for decades. The city felt worn in the best possible way — not polished, not trying too hard, just comfortable being exactly what it was.

    Even stopping for a beer flight at the hotel bar somehow fit the mood of the trip. Rain outside. Slow conversations. No real schedule to keep.

    New Orleans felt less like a vacation and more like stepping temporarily into another rhythm.

    The weather never really improved while we were there.

    At the time, that felt disappointing. New Orleans seemed like a city built for warmer light — brighter colors, crowded patios, sunlight bouncing off old balconies.

    But looking back now, I don’t think the trip would feel the same without the gray skies.

    The drizzle slowed everything down. It softened the city a little. It made the streets quieter. More reflective. Like New Orleans was showing a different side of itself beneath all the noise people usually associate with it.

    By the end of the trip, I stopped waiting for the weather to change.

    The rain had become part of the city itself somehow. The damp streets, the low clouds, the smell of food drifting through the air — it all blended together into something that felt heavier and more lived in than I expected.

    And looking back now, I think brighter weather might have made the trip less memorable.

    New Orleans never really felt polished while we were there. That’s probably part of why it stayed with me.

    Some cities feel designed for visitors.

    New Orleans feels like it existed long before you arrived and will keep going exactly the same after you leave.

    Maybe that’s the allure of it.

    Not perfection.

    Just culture so thick you feel it lingering long after the trip is over.

  • Why Stadium Lights Still Feel Like Summer

    Why Stadium Lights Still Feel Like Summer

    There’s something about stadium lights that feels disconnected from time.

    Maybe it starts before the game — walking through the gates while everything still feels quiet, seeing rows of empty seats and a field that looks almost too perfect to touch. There’s anticipation, but not urgency. A long evening sitting ahead of you.

    I took this trip a month ago, but certain moments linger longer than others.

    The view from near the dugout before people filled the seats.

    The strange calm before thousands of conversations start at once.

    Then later, after the final out, something changed again. The crowd thinned. The energy softened. Stadium lights stayed on while fireworks prepared in the distance, and for a few minutes it felt less like a sporting event and more like summer itself — stretched out a little longer than expected.

    Maybe that’s why baseball trips stick.

    Not always because of the game.

    Sometimes because of the drive.

    The hotel.

    The food nearby.

    The city attached to the memory.

    The small moments around the event.

    I think places become important for reasons we don’t notice immediately.

    Months later you remember the light, the weather, or how tired you were walking back.

    You remember atmosphere.

    And maybe that’s what nostalgia actually is.

    Not big events.

    Just ordinary moments that quietly survive longer than expected.