Let’s face it. In theory, the idea of travel is completely romantic. But like an outdoor picnic that inevitably lures bees, a few inconveniences are sometimes integral to both experiences. A price must be paid while venturing along the path to bliss.

First—and foremost—is a substantial dent in our bank accounts. Travel isn’t a cheap pastime: getting to the airport, paying for airfares, securing decent hotel accommodations, and flipping for meals and even moderate entertainment all add up quickly. Even with a generous budget, the total cost of a trip is often double the amount originally estimated.

Along the way, we also have to squeeze ourselves in and out of some tight spaces. First, we have to limit our baggage and personal belongings to get on the plane; then, we need to suck ourselves into small spaces with traveling “partners” who might talk nonstop during a long flight or laugh like hyenas while watching the scheduled movie—when we desperately need a nap.

When we final arrive at our destination, the hotel that looked so luxurious on the Internet may actually have smelly rooms—or a shared bathroom at the opposite end of the hallway. At 3 a.m., after half a night of thrashing in a lumpy bed in search of elusive sleep, the all-night party next door may not provide universal entertainment.

Even if we land in a spectacular vacation resort, the worries about family members and pets left behind may put a crimp in much-needed relaxation. Even while stretched out on a beach, we can’t help but wonder: Will the long-nurtured plants survive without our careful watering?

The nagging concerns, which we wanted to leave behind, find a way of creeping into the carry-on baggage—adding ten more pounds of unwanted weight.

So traveling actually requires a fair number of sacrifices, despite the promise of indulgent perks at a glorious destination. But, oh, the heady rewards—if we can just get beyond the relatively minor inconveniences.

After six hours of feeling like a squished sandwich en route to San Francisco, this magical city made my mind cartwheel in everlasting delight. Now my bookend to Philadelphia, this New York­-like blend of art galleries and posh boutiques—set on steep hills with palm trees—enlarged my scope of the country. With unending vistas stretching beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, the water views dazzled me from every angle.

The perspective from under the bridge on a tour boat was equally astonishing from the lookout post on a highway shoulder. Popping out of a tour bus to photograph the majestic arch reaching across the glistening water has preserved that powerful image for all time.

At Fisherman’s Wharf, bread bowls filled with seafood chowder encouraged seagulls, searching for afternoon treats, to perform swooping acrobatics. The sea lions, overlapping each other on floating boardwalk rafts, provided humorous entertainment as they jockeyed for position with powerful body bumps. Just as one drifted off to sleep, another was pushed into the water—allowing the victor to swivel up and claim his prized spot.

Later, during a leisurely walk around nearby shops, lively street entertainment and prized Ghirardelli chocolates delivered a delightful bonus.

In the maze of Knob Hill, curved streets winded around elegantly designed gardens. But when a taxi driver screeched to a sudden halt for a red light on a precipice, even the most courageous amusement-park rider was forced to grip the hand support—and silently pray for good breaks.

Although guidebooks described San Francisco’s rollicking hills, they were steeper than the mind could possibly have visualized beforehand. Similarly, stories about early-morning and late-afternoon temperature dips were absolutely true, despite a stubborn refusal to pack a heavy-duty sweater for sunny California.

During an excursion to Napa Valley, a joyful day with a fast friend from Australia was a good reminder of commonality discovered in California’s wine country. Sampling different vintage wines under a pergola overlooking the thriving crop, stories were exchanged about families, homes, and loved ones—with a sense of familiarity in knowing each other for years rather than just a few hours.

The next day, an excursion to Sausalito offered a peaceful respite at one of the many lunch spots overlooking the water. At an outdoor table, a leisurely meal allowed the mind to wander along the rocky cliffs as explorers looked for treasures by the bank.

Climbing the redwood hills—while doing a back-bend to see the towering trees—provided immersion in a spiritual hush. In the presence of this seemingly ever-reaching height, Nature, once again, reaffirmed proper proportions in the world.

Back in Union Square, lunch al fresco allowed for prime people watching: roller bladders swooshing by dawdlers, mimes entertaining children, and artists displaying watercolors. Just up the street, a national bookstore was a familiar haven—with a slightly different layout—during time away from home.

First-rate dinner spots were plentiful, with options for every palate. A bottle of champagne and dancing on the 46th floor of a hotel bar, with floor-to-ceiling windows, offered a 360-degree view of San Francisco’s shimmering lights.

Since this quintessential experience exploring another cosmopolitan city—balancing Philadelphia across the country—every new city has continued to offer its own special charm.

In Boston, the path along the Charles River invited walkers and bikers to gather and chat in outdoor glory. The astounding constellation of museums in Washington, D.C., filled each day with artful education while Georgetown’s collection of cozy restaurants and shops animated an easy-to-navigate college town. In Chicago, the towering architecture along The Magnificent Mile stretched the shape of another world-class city.

On another trip to New York, the pulsing street life and international flavors at Rockefeller Center were guaranteed energizers. Baltimore’s Inner Harbor welcomed families marveling at the glass-enclosed aquarium, creating the sensation of becoming part of a colorful fish underworld.

In San Diego, the zoo provided an unforgettable proximity to pandas napping on tree branches in one of the largest-scale animal sanctuaries in the nation. During a trip to South Beach in Florida, artists sketched portraits on easels and outdoor cafes lit up a vibrant nightlife.

Further afield in the Bahamas’ Paradise Island, a female taxi driver shared stories about universal dating woes. A German roommate at the island’s Club Med facility provided enlightenment about her country’s paid vacation policy for a minimum of four weeks. As American oglers openly gaped at various shapes and sizes on the island’s pristine beach, European’s ease with “natural” sunbathing was testimony to their nonchalant body comfort.

Satisfying a growing appetite for travel, the quaint streets lined with used bookstores and antique shops in Nottingham, England, delivered a small village’s walk back in time. An international literary festival in Hay-on-Wye reinforced the belief in the power of words to forge—or break—universal connections. In the emerald-green fields of Wales, sheep roamed freely while massive castles transported visitors to another century.

In Costa del Sol, Spain, elderly women sweeping steps energetically and tending flowerpots meticulously offered insight about a beneficial lifestyle for longevity. Two-person boats with foot pedals, operated like a bicycle in the Mediterranean, offered a thrill for even the most entrenched landlubber. During late-night performances in venues along the city’s central balustrade, Flamenco dancers clicked their heels proudly—asserting the culture’s spirit.

More than a decade later, each of these vivid snapshots of extraordinary places—around the country and world—continue to provide a bright moment on a dreary day. Although these trips involved a certain degree of inconvenience away from the security, familiarity, and comfort of home, they have added multicolor layers to an otherwise one-dimensional understanding of the world.

Years ago, others’ obsessive talk about travel was a mysterious fascination. Before visiting a new city, people and places appeared basically the same. But that was a grave misperception.

We may all have common experiences involving families, jobs, love, loss, joy, and aging. But our cultural heritage, the way we live, and our view of the world—from the spot we happened to land or choose to live—varies substantially.

Surely, waking up every day along a coastline with the sound of water serenading the rhythms of a day has to impact one’s outlook and attitudes. For cultures that value the importance of vacation time and employees’ health, the drive for nonstop work and wealth must assume different proportions. In cities and countries where residents from many backgrounds have settled, a level of tolerating differences—or at least a necessary effort in that direction—emerges, even on the surface, out of sheer necessity.

Although nesting in the comfort of our own home is often easier, cheaper, and simpler, traveling to new places invites us to stretch both our physical and mental boundaries. By exposing ourselves to some initial discomforts in unfamiliar territory, we enlarge our perceptions of the world—and burst our protective bubble.

Bon voyage.

Posted by Andrea K. Hammer
AKH Publications/Artsphoria

When I was six years old, the youngest and only girl of four children, my mom started to take me out for lunch every Saturday. Many years and lunches later, our tradition still continues each week.

My mom and I choose to spend Saturdays together because we value each other’s company and ideas. Our day is filled with discussions about stories we’ve read, movies we’ve watched, and our weekly experiences.

Now, on occasion, my fiercely independent mother reluctantly allows me to treat her to a meal now instead. “It’s your time,” I constantly remind her.

During the last few years, my mom has told inspiring stories about her volunteer work teaching the visually impaired how to knit. She also reads voraciously—another activity in her daily routine to keep her mind sharp. To maintain her body’s strength, my mom does laps in her apartment hallway and around the complex’s grounds in good weather.

As we walk and chat during our get-togethers, we’re still overcome with the same belly laughter that propelled us through folding endless loads of laundry and preparing massive feasts together in the house where I grew up. Even in the bowling-alley kitchen in her current apartment, we still know how to move around each other with ease, instinctively passing utensils that the other needs.

Through each phase of life, my mom has stepped up readily to meet the next challenge. She has continued to find excitement in each new day rather than longing for the past. As she flashes her bright smile at anyone lucky enough to cross her path, my mom says that she’s just grateful to wake up—and have another chance to put her feet on the ground—each morning.

Here are a few of my mom’s pearls of wisdom for embracing a simple approach to life:

Start each day with the possibility of something wonderful happening.

If you get on the wrong train, there’s always another one to take back.

Either you do, or you don’t. All of the other self-created chaos is wasted energy.

Listen carefully to others, and enjoy learning from them.

Revel in small gestures, and offer a smile and kind word.

Remember when you rose to meet challenges as you take on new ones.

Decide to be happy, so you’re good company for others.

Nothing is coming to you. You have to earn it.

Don’t question your abilities. If something goes wrong, you can always try again.

Don’t try to read other people’s thoughts, which will complicate your life.

After you take a bad fall, get back up. Done!

Accept people for who they are, and enjoy the qualities you admire.

Always tell yourself that you will find a way to survive life’s “challenges.”

Deal!

My relationship with my mom is extraordinarily easy and uncomplicated. She finds great pleasure in every aspect of her life by sharing her joyful spirit.

Posted by Andrea K. Hammer
AKH Publications/Artsphoria

Four hours after my father drew his last breath, my mother was still holding his hand. We waited for his doctor to sign the death certificate, so his body could be transported to the funeral parlor. Side by side, hand in hand—as they had walked together for the last fifty years—my mom refused to leave his side.

I sat watching her try to keep him warm, staring at the well-manicured nails that were so at odds with his flying tufts of hair. His jaw had dropped open and finally seemed to let in the air that had been escaping him in life. Tracing his face with my eyes, I memorized every detail and wondered how I would go back into the world without seeing the last link to my grandmother’s arched nose.

A hole was left in the world without this spirited man, who went down with his fists literally raised high, during private conversations only he could hear at the end, ranting against the cancer that had consumed his body and robbed his spirit for eight years. When one of the tumors pressed on his spine and made walking next to impossible, my dad—by sheer willpower—dragged himself inch by inch to get to family gatherings. A man who had always loved driving, he sacrificed his last shred of pride when, at last, he surrendered himself to bed and released his car keys.

I tried, in the last months, to sit by his bed and hold his unresponsive hand, the one that felt so all encompassing as we walked on the boardwalk during my childhood summers in Atlantic City. Back then, he owned a tire business; after a week of blackened fingernails, he took pains to spruce himself up for my mom. The smell of his English Leather aftershave competed with the salt air as I looked up at my 6 foot, 2 inch hulk of a father.

At a lunch with colleagues during the last months of his illness, the conversation coincidentally turned to memories of fathers. The 80-year-old in our group back then talked freely about his sergeant-like father, who died twenty years ago. “You all need to make peace with your fathers before they go,” he said, hanging his head in the face of a still-present ghost. My boss, at that time, described his father’s dislike of the first moustache he had ever grown. “Shave that thing off, or don’t come back to this dinner table,” he said, mimicking his father’s stern tone. And another staff member in that group said we all hear our father’s voices in our heads, still trying to please them.

So my fingers tapped away on my dad’s laptop, the one possession of his that I desperately wanted. When we first lifted the screen and tried to start the unresponsive computer, my partner said in his empathetic way, “Your dad’s hands were here.” I listened to the clicking keyboard, taking comfort in the rhythm.

Here, in this quiet space that I shared alone with my dad, I still felt connected to him and his strength—although unsettled as I pieced him back together through his files. When I first couldn’t get his computer to work, my then-coworker said: “Surely, there must be something of his that would mean more to you.” But here, his spirit still had shape in letters to my brother about the brutal pain and constant cold he felt, in his work files that showed a determination to keep working until it was utterly impossible, and even in his last CAT scan report that said: “Prognosis for recovery is bleak.” I sobbed, thinking about how he carried that information in his head and still managed to tell us an off-color joke.

My father’s face came to me in a dream two months after the birds flew free from his grave. Gusts of wind swirled around those of us huddled by his side that day, when, even then, he seemed to refuse to go down to his resting place—near a busy traffic intersection, watching the swirling patterns of cars that had always mesmerized him. In the dream, I kissed his cheek, and he told me to believe in myself. So I raced back to his laptop at every free moment, trying to heal myself and honor both of our spirits.

Many years later, my dad is still everywhere and nowhere. We are able to think of him now, laughing heartily without constant arrows in our hearts, wherever we go: in New Jersey, where he drove over the bridge from Philadelphia, just to buy the cheaper gas; and at his favorite restaurant, which serves a seven-layer cake that he could inhale before turning to sharp bones and asking with disbelief, “What’s happened to me?”

In the first years after his death, I was consumed by an unrelenting gnawing. But now, many years later, I’m simply urged on by a cluster of swooping birds—the safekeepers of my father’s soul—making formations above my head and leading the way forward.

Posted by Andrea K. Hammer
AKH Publications/Artsphoria

Our local train station, a microcosm of the larger community, is a study in contrasts. Whirring wheels slide into the depot for the first pickup of ambitious but sleepy riders. As the day unfolds, cars speed into the parking lot--hunting for premium spaces--or depositing family members and friends on the station platform.

Some jump onto the curb, without even the slightest look back. Others take a moment to pop out for a warm embrace before the day's demands send them in different directions.

Inside the station, some bark gruffly, exhaling life's accumulated frustrations of the day, week, and year. Others pause to exchange a few words, a brief story, or even a helpful referral--trying to connect despite acquired layers of armor and misleading or surface differences.

Before rushing off for the day's appointments, a few reach out to each other anonymously. They pause at a small book shelf, installed months ago as an inspiring SEPTA-wide initiative. Following a handwritten invitation to "give a book, take a book," curious onlookers kneel down to peruse the freely offered gifts.

On some days, the two shelves are packed with colorful children's books, tattered romance novels, nonfiction works, and even a few surprising literary pieces. Sometimes the slim pickings reveal a discarded cast-off flung harshly on its broken back.

Despite a fondness for clean, crisp pages, I'm drawn to the used books like a magnet--particularly since the unsettling news of key bookstore closings. Without these treasured havens to explore regularly, I wonder: What stories could previous owners willing part with or feel compelled to share?

Even though overflowing bookcases at home beg for thinning, I struggle to relinquish these lifelong markers during a promised collection. Running out the door, I hastily grab a fluffy nibble from a once-admired author to deposit on the community shelf.

Now, in good conscience, I can make a fair exchange and collect a new prize.

Two trains, heading in opposite directions, pull into the station. Reluctantly moving away from the shelf with a new tale in hand, I think about reciprocity and the ways we connect directly or indirectly through our life stories.

Stepping onto the train and watching a considerate traveler remove packages to make a seat available, my heart skips a beat when the simple book-shelf model surprisingly reverberates throughout the day--until the evening train rolls rhythmically back into the station, marking another story-filled day.

Posted by Andrea K. Hammer
AKH Publicatons/Artsphoria