By your slightly jet-lagged, accidentally diplomatic, frequently lost narrator—me.
Let me be clear: I don’t travel because I love airports. I don’t wander the globe because I enjoy being frisked by someone called “Doug” while trying to explain that, no, that’s not a weapon, it’s just an electric toothbrush. I travel because the world is full of people—and people, as it turns out, are the most fascinating, irritating, occasionally brilliant creatures you’ll ever meet.
In all my miles and misadventures, I’ve discovered something rather profound: despite borders, accents, questionable national dishes, and differing opinions on how many times bacon should be flipped, people are, deep down, the same. They smile when they’re happy, they frown when they’re fed up, and they all think their traffic is the worst in the world. They’re not wrong… but they’re also not right. And frankly, anyone who doesn’t like dogs? Should be placed gently but firmly on a raft and set adrift. There’s just no helping them.
Let’s start in the good ol’ U.K., the land of tea and endless detours. I once had a British friend give me directions entirely based on fast food landmarks. “Go down this road until you see the KFC, hang a right. When you hit the McDonald’s, turn left. Keep going until you pass that diner that serves waffles with your eggs and sausage. Then another right. If you pass the Burger King, you’ve gone too far.” Not a street name in sight. Just grease-based geography. It’s like trying to navigate using cholesterol.
Now let me tell you about a former colleague—Mr. Macho. Drove a muscle car, wore sunglasses indoors, and spoke in a tone that suggested he might punch the moon if it looked at him funny. One time, we went to a bar in Cheshire (that’s in England, where nothing is spelled the way it sounds). We sat down, barely taken three sips of our drinks when, out of nowhere, some furious guy came over and smacked me right in the head—apparently convinced I was flirting with his wife. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, seeing stars and wondering what bus had just hit me. And where was Mr. Tough Guy? Hiding outside, claiming he was “waiting for the guy to come out so he could teach him a lesson.” Right. I’ve seen more courage from a soggy slice of toast.
One time in Amsterdam, because I apparently have no grasp of social boundaries, I half-jokingly asked a Dutch woman if I could borrow her bicycle. Now, bear in mind—this is the Netherlands, where a bike is less a mode of transport and more a sacred family heirloom. But without so much as a raised eyebrow, she smiled and said, “Sure, just bring it back in two hours.” Two hours! If you tried that in London, you’d be tackled by three bobbies and end up on CCTV for the evening news. In Amsterdam, it’s just Tuesday.
Then we have Paris, the city of love, lights, and wildly variable human behavior. I was with a friend on the elevator of the Eiffel Tower when she suddenly discovered she had a fear of heights. Panic. Full meltdown. The elevator had windows, which didn’t help. People either tried to help or stepped back like she was mid-transformation into a werewolf. The helpers? Two Brits and an American. The non-helpers? Mostly French. I don’t know if it was the language barrier or just a general policy of “not my circus, not my monkey.” Later that day, we got lost trying to find the Basilica. We asked a French guy for directions. He tried—really tried. He didn’t know much English, but he gestured, pointed, waved, flailed. It was like watching someone do interpretive dance while being chased by bees. So yes, even the French can be decent. Sometimes.
Romania was a different kind of magic. Rural, remote, and in a time without GPS navigation. My other friend and I got lost and there was no hotel to be found. Instead we ended up staying with a family who didn’t speak a single word of English. We didn’t know Romanian. And yet—hospitality! They gave us dinner, a warm bed, and we slept right next to their horse. Literally. The horse was in the next room. You haven’t truly travelled until you’ve tried to fall asleep with a stallion snoring six feet away.
Then there’s Saudi Arabia. I made friends with the nephew of a Saudi ambassador. He showed me the sights of Riyadh, including a 7-Eleven that, according to him, served “the best Slurpee in town.” Let me tell you—when you’re in a desert and someone hands you a cup of frozen sugar, you don’t ask questions. You just say thank you and quietly cry tears of joy. Over dinner one evening, he asked me for advice. His family wanted him to get married, but he could use the dowry money to buy a Porsche. “Wife or Porsche?” he asked. Look, I may not be a marriage counsellor, but that one’s easy. A Porsche of course. You can always trade it in later.
On the other end of the spectrum, I met a Saudi teenager who told me he hated Americans and Brits. I asked why. He didn’t know. Eventually he admitted it’s just what someone older told him. And that, my friends, is how fear and hate spread—like chain emails from 2002. It’s horrifying how easy it is to plant that kind of poison in someone’s head. That was the first time I realized: bad ideas travel faster than common sense.
During a six-hour layover in Hong Kong, I figured I’d head into the city to kill some time. But just as I was about to leave the airport, a staff member came rushing over, a bit out of breath, and told me to hold up—there was a huge protest going on and things had started to get messy. He said it wasn’t safe and strongly suggested I stay put. Good thing I listened—and it turns out, that protest had turned violent, and foreign nationals were being harassed by authorities. That random guy in a vest probably saved me from an entirely different kind of blog post titled “How I Ended Up on a Watchlist.”
In the Philippines. A place where everyone is either your brother, sister, uncle, or auntie—even if you met them five minutes ago while buying coconut juice. I once watched a 5-foot-4 and built like a broomstick local tell a group of towering Russian tourists that he liked Ukrainians better because they stood up to bullies. Then he sipped his juice like a legend. Bravest thing I’ve ever seen involving a plastic straw.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania—where I drove a massive pickup truck for the first time. The GPS told me to take a U-turn. So I did. Except it turns out you need a football field to make one of those things turn around without folding space-time. Cue honking. Swearing. Middle fingers flung like confetti. This, in the “City of Brotherly Love.” I felt about as welcome as a butcher at a vegan support group meeting.
And then… Virginia. Good ol’ home sweet Virginia. Where my neighbors would quite literally give you the shirt off their backs, and probably offer you lemonade afterward. I’ve seen folks mow someone else’s lawn just because. This is the part of America where “bless your heart” could mean anything from genuine sympathy to “you absolute idiot,” but they’ll still wave at you from the porch.
So here’s the truth: no matter where you go, people are people. Some are kind, some are odd, some punch you in the head, and some hand you bicycles and directions you can’t possibly follow. But most people, when it comes down to it, just want the same things—peace, a decent meal, and someone to laugh with.
Except the ones who don’t like dogs. Seriously, what is wrong with you?
Thanks for dropping by my little corner of the world. If the story gave you a chuckle or made you pause and think, a like would be mighty kind. And if you’re feeling adventurous, well, hitting that subscribe button is like pulling up a chair and staying a while—always room for one more.
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A Kings 
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