My Noble Steed (Sort Of) I got a short up and back deployment to look at a water damaged RV in Virginia Beach.After dropping off Alida’s Car in Wilmington I hit the dusty trail for a trip so short in time that there won’t be any postcards. Just 11 hours and 680 miles in basically a day. The two days ride is a 2025 Nissan Sentra. Calling it a noble steed might be generous—it’s less stallion, more mule with a limp. The kind of mount they hand the greenhorn who hasn’t quite proven himself worthy of a bronc. My suitcase is the saddle, my backpack the bedroll, and together we’re just trying to make it from town to town without throwing a shoe. Maybe one day, if I stay loyal to the rental kingdom, I’ll be trusted with something that can actually gallop—or at least a goat that bites. The Ranch Owner’s Quarters But the trail took a funny turn. For one night, they put me up in a Homewood Suites. Two beds, a whole kitchen, a fridge big enough for a side of beef, and a bathroom the size of a danc...

Union Station After Dark So there I was, ending up at Denver’s Union Station after dark—Mostly unplanned, which, let’s be honest, is how the best stuff usually happens. The old Beaux-Arts building was lit up in soft red and green, like it was either getting ready for the holidays or just showing off for the night. That iconic “Travel by Train” sign still crowns the roof like a neon crown—kind of like the city’s way of saying, Welcome, you’re here. Union Station’s been Denver’s front door since 1881, surviving a fire in 1894 and a bunch of makeovers since, but it’s never lost its soul. Inside, it’s quiet. The great hall feels like a cathedral for people going places, with massive chandeliers and tall arched windows letting in whatever night light there is. Shops and cafés are closed up, but the marble floors still shine, and the wooden benches hold a few scattered souls charging phones or just soaking it in. Even empty, the place hums with history. You almost expect to hear a conducto...

  A road trip meditation on grand hotels, personal history, and one unforgettable place in the Rockies. I come from the Borscht Belt. Not just geographically. Not just culturally. I mean origin story stuff. I mean: I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for that strange, beautiful, fading world of Jewish resorts that once dotted the Catskills. My grandfather met my grandmother because of it. Her family ran a hotel —nothing big, but big enough to need help. They had my father there, in between guests and linen changes and dinners served family-style. When the hotel burned down—as so many of them eventually did. My uncle didn't didn’t give up. He started a campground. A postcard from the post war family hotel Meanwhile, on the other side of the State, my mother’s family was living their own story. They were campers. One summer, they rolled up to that very same campground. My mom met my dad somewhere between a bonfire and the bathhouse. That’s how it happens. That’s how I h...