Chapter 3: "European Odyssey"
Chapter 3: "European Odyssey"
2023. Let me just sit with that number for a moment. 2023 was the year everything changed again—but this time, it was changing back to something we'd almost forgotten was possible.
This was the first full year of uninterrupted, post-pandemic travel. And Sarah, Skyelark, and I? We took full advantage of it. We covered more territory in one year than some people cover in a decade: Africa, North America, Europe, the UK. It was like making up for lost time, but with the wisdom that only comes from having had time taken away.
You know what's interesting about being forced to stay still? It teaches you to move with intention. Those pandemic years weren't lost time—they were preparation time. Time to think, to plan, to appreciate what we'd taken for granted.
But here's something I discovered about myself in 2023: I was writing less and living more. And that wasn't by accident—it was by design.
I've always been prolific with my writing. Travel somewhere, write about it. Experience something, analyze it. Have an adventure, break it down into lessons learned and insights gained. But in 2023, I made a conscious decision to scale back the documentation and scale up the actual living.
It's like the difference between live poker and online poker. When you're playing online, you can take notes on every hand, track every statistic, analyze every decision in real-time. But when you're playing live, you have to trust your instincts, read the room, be present for the subtle cues that no software can capture.
I was taking more videos and photos instead of writing extensive blog posts. And you know what? The videos captured something my words never could—the spontaneity, the raw emotion, the unfiltered moments that happen when you're not trying to craft them into a narrative.
There's this video I took flying into Fair Isle from Tingwall Shetland. One minute of pure Alaskan wilderness... wait, no, Scottish wilderness. But it has that same feeling of being on the edge of the world, where civilization just... stops.
I realized I'd been experiencing life through the filter of "how will I write about this later?" Instead of asking "how does this feel right now?" It was time to reverse that priority.
Let me tell you about Gibraltar from Skyelark's perspective, because traveling with a dog teaches you things about places that guidebooks simply can't capture.
Skyelark approaches every new destination with pure curiosity and zero preconceptions. She doesn't care about historical significance or architectural marvels. She cares about: Are there interesting smells? Are there friendly people? Are there good places to run?
Gibraltar's dog park, as it turns out, is dirt. Just... dirt. Not the lush, manicured green spaces you might expect. But for Skyelark? It was perfect. Because dogs don't judge a place by its landscaping—they judge it by its possibilities for adventure.
Watching her explore Gibraltar taught me something about perspective that no poker book ever could. She didn't care that we were standing on one of the most strategically important pieces of real estate in European history. She cared that there were new people to meet, new corners to investigate, new experiences to be had.
It reminded me of something crucial about poker and travel: Sometimes the most valuable information comes from paying attention to things that don't seem important. The tells that aren't obvious, the details that don't make it into the official narrative.
There was this moment where Skyelark was playing with some local dogs in that dirt park, and I realized: This is international diplomacy at its purest. No language barriers, no political complications, just universal joy and play.
From Gibraltar's dirt dog parks to Hard Rock Hotel Marbella—now that's what I call range. Marbella represented everything sophisticated about European travel: luxury, style, the kind of service that makes you forget you're staying in a hotel because it feels like you're living in a curated experience.
But here's what I loved about the Hard Rock approach: They took rock and roll—which is fundamentally about rebellion and authenticity—and they elevated it to an art form without losing its soul.
The hotel wasn't trying to be stuffy or pretentious. It was saying, "You can have luxury AND personality. You can have sophistication AND fun." It was like finding a poker room where the stakes are high but the atmosphere is relaxed—the best of both worlds.
Good poker players know that image and substance aren't mutually exclusive. You can be serious about your game while still enjoying the experience. Marbella taught me that the same principle applies to travel.
I remember sitting by the pool, working on some poker strategy, and realizing that this was exactly what post-pandemic travel should feel like: intentional luxury without guilt, earned relaxation without apology.
We'd all been through enough uncertainty. Now it was time to enjoy certainty—certain comfort, certain quality, certain experiences that delivered exactly what they promised.
And then there was Fair Isle. If Marbella was sophisticated luxury, Fair Isle was sophisticated solitude. This Arctic archipelago island—and yes, I'm using "sophisticated" to describe a place where the main entertainment is watching sheep—because there's real sophistication in understanding when to embrace simplicity.
Fair Isle is what happens when you take all the noise of modern life and just... remove it. It's like poker in its purest form—no bells, no whistles, just the essential elements and your ability to engage with them meaningfully.
That flight from Tingwall Shetland to Fair Isle? One minute of video that captured something I couldn't have written in a thousand words. The vastness, the isolation, the feeling of being suspended between sea and sky with nothing but your own thoughts for company.
You know what Fair Isle reminded me of? Those deep tournament runs where you've been playing for twelve hours, and suddenly you reach this zone where everything becomes clear. External noise fades away, and you're operating on pure instinct and accumulated wisdom.
Total immersion. That's what Fair Isle offered. Not immersion in culture or cuisine or activities, but immersion in yourself. In your own capacity for stillness, for presence, for finding meaning in moments that most people would consider... empty.
But they're not empty. They're full—full of space for your own thoughts, full of opportunity for reflection, full of the kind of silence that allows you to hear things you miss when life is noisy.
Africa, North America, Europe, the UK—we covered a lot of territory in 2023. But here's what struck me about experiencing such diverse places in rapid succession: It's like playing in different poker rooms around the world. The game is fundamentally the same, but the style, the pace, the cultural nuances create completely different experiences.
Africa taught me about resilience and joy in the face of challenges. North America reminded me of ambition and possibility. Europe showed me sophistication and history living side by side. The UK offered that perfect blend of tradition and innovation.
Each place added layers to my understanding, not just of the world, but of myself. How do I respond to different types of beauty? What kinds of challenges energize me versus drain me? Where do I find peace versus excitement?
It's like expanding your poker game from just Texas Hold'em to Omaha, Stud, mixed games. Each variant teaches you something new about strategy, about adaptability, about finding edges in unfamiliar situations.
But the real revelation was this: I wasn't collecting countries like poker trophies. I was collecting perspectives, collecting moments of understanding, collecting evidence that the world is both bigger and smaller than we imagine.
Bigger because there's always more to discover. Smaller because fundamental human experiences—curiosity, kindness, the desire for connection—are universal.
Looking back on 2023, my overwhelming feeling is gratitude. Gratitude for the return of travel freedom, yes, but also gratitude for having learned to travel differently. More intentionally, more presently, more focused on experience than documentation.
I must admit, my writing was usually prolific, but this year I scaled back. I took more videos and photos. I trusted that some experiences are better captured in moments than in manuscripts, better preserved in memory than in detailed blog posts.
This wasn't laziness or writer's block. This was a conscious choice to prioritize living over analyzing, to trust that some insights come from accumulation of experience rather than immediate interpretation.
The pandemic taught us that travel is a privilege, not a right. That freedom of movement is precious, not permanent. That the world will wait for us, but our capacity to explore it is finite and therefore precious.
So what did this European Odyssey—this global adventure—teach me that my previous travels hadn't? It taught me about balance. The balance between documenting and experiencing. Between planning and spontaneity. Between solo reflection and shared adventure.
Alaska taught me patience. Disney taught me wonder. But 2023 taught me integration—how to weave all these different modes of travel, all these different ways of engaging with the world, into a coherent approach to life.
It also taught me that the best travel companions—whether they're people like Sarah or dogs like Skyelark—don't just share the journey with you. They help you see the journey differently, notice things you'd miss, experience moments more fully.
In our next chapter, we'll dive deep into the strategic thinking that made all this travel possible and meaningful. We'll explore how the scientific method—particularly Richard Feynman's approach to understanding the world—became my secret weapon for making better decisions both at the poker table and on the road.
🧭 Chapter 3 Navigation Complete
"Sometimes the most powerful stories are the ones you live fully rather than write completely."
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