The Long Way Home...

On Friday morning I woke up in my own bed for the first time since the middle of October. The night before, Evangelina and I had returned to Austin, having traveled from France to Milan, Copenhagen, and finally Amsterdam for the final leg of our long way home.

Instead of a coffee shop in Antibes, I’m back to having coffee in our Four-Chair Room, named after the number of chairs that the previous owners had in this room. We never questioned what else to do with this space and promptly purchased four comfortable chairs for the coziest space in our home. I have been drinking my coffee from one of the Limoges cups that I made in France. A physical reminder of a time and place that already feels further away in location and time than it actually is.

Returning home from any trip can always be a little jarring. Leaving my first-ever residency added to the intensity of crossing the threshold of the door to our house. A moment that I knew was coming, and one that I let affect my present a few too many times over the last couple of weeks.

My daughter who is studying abroad at the moment used the word sojourner to describe her time as opposed to tourist. A phrase she learned in her cross-cultural psychology class during her semester in Barcelona. I am intrigued by that idea because I know that the experiences I loved most about my extended time abroad was noticing the difference between moving through a place and being within it.

Most of my writing from my solo travels have been focused on just that– on noticing exactly where you are and what is in front of you. The moments that have lingered the longest for me are the ones where I was fully engaged, truly seeing and being, not just moving from place to place, and experience to experience.

I left France almost two weeks ago, having spent my last day in Nice with Evangelina. We stayed that final night at a lovely, simple hotel in Nice. The same hotel where I had woken up early on in my residency to find a pigeon sharing its presence, in one of my favorite photos I have ever made.

On that last morning in France, I looked across the street at the same apartment building with its deep terracotta walls. This time, the sky was overcast and the shadows of my last visit were nowhere to be found. The pigeon was presumably hunkered down somewhere with its friends as a storm headed our way. That morning, even without that pigeon, I was no longer alone and it was time to move on from my residency and begin the long trip home.

Over the previous days, the last few of my time in the Cote d’Azur, the intensity of my residency had already begun to fade. I peeked, or perhaps jumped, over the fence to a different side of life here. My wife and our girls visited during their Thanksgiving break. We played a bit of tourist together and I did my best to mix that with trying to share the world that I had found for myself during my time living and working in this place.

We day-tripped to Grasses and Gourdon, both new to me. Later that day, winding our way back down the hills to Antibes for lunch at the restaurant that sits alongside the Marché.

I had been waiting since the first week of November to witness the look on my wife’s face and hear her reaction as she walked up the steps across the Marché in Antibes. I had played that moment out in my mind countless times in the weeks leading up to her visit. After lunch, I followed her as she passed through the archway leading us through the narrow alley that allows the crystal blue water to reveal itself through the tiny crack of light between the buildings that opens up to the promenade that runs above the coast. I was delighted to finally share that moment with her.

Back in Cannes that evening, just before we allowed hunger and exhaustion to make our decision for what would have been a fine, but likely forgettable meal, I noticed a restaurant that I had read about. We walked through the door just as they opened and found ourselves at the last, and perhaps only, walk-in table that evening. I was quickly reminded about a small detail of this particular place. Not only was their phone for reservations installed within the past few years, it was still cash-only. I raced to the nearest bank machine and returned to this cozy, family-run restaurant and their simple menu with beautifully cooked food. Its low ceilings allowed the warmth of their hospitality to remain in that room. Our server offered a lesson on the pronunciation of “mille feuille” to my Barcelona sojourner that was as lovely as the dessert itself.

The girls left the day before us to finish up their semesters in North Carolina and Barcelona. Evangelina and I then departed that morning for Milan, driving through more tunnels than I knew was possible. Driving through the gray and drizzling rain, looking out at the mountains that held soft clouds tightly to their edges, blurring the lines between one other.

Milan was the first stop for our trip home. One that brought us to new places and old friends. We drove into the city through more rain and a bit of grittiness that I wasn’t quite expecting. It was a sharp contrast to the mountains we descended from.

Our three days in Milan turned out to be the true transition from solo wanderer into vacation travel mode.

We were hosted and guided through Milan by one of my oldest friends in ceramics, and one of the most brilliant people I know. Abigail graduated a year ahead of me at Skidmore. She has been working with clay since she was young and had mastered throwing years before I met her. I have only seen her use a wheel one time in my life, after at least a full semester of begging. Her work, and her ability to create has always been massively impressive, be it sculptural or utilitarian work. Her ability to speak about it, or anything, for that matter, even more so. I have learned much from her through our years of friendship. I don’t see Abigail often enough, but she is always there in the important moments and our conversations always move as if we have spoken each day.

Abigail and her husband, a professor of architecture at University of Michigan (who grew up in Milan), and their son, moved earlier this year. Luckily for us, that meant we had likely the best hosts and tour guides in the entire city. Abigail was our personal art historian. Steven, our guide through Milan’s history and architecture as well as our concierge for endless delicious meals. Their son, a thirteen year old music and ice cream aficionado, was our gelato consigliere for each spectacular gelataria.

Evangelina and I barely made a decision for three days other than what time we should wake up. We walked miles each day and wandered through a city that surprised me often. We passed through the tourist destinations, local gems, and down to a basement dining room at Abigail and Steven’s neighborhood pizza place that they hadn’t yet seen themselves.

We took a tour of The Last Supper, where our tour-guide’s knowledge was supplemented by Abigail’s depth of knowledge. Visitors are limited in the air-locked space where da Vinci’s work resides after numerous attempts and countless hours of restoration. Necessary because of da Vinci’s choice of materials that began degrading almost immediately. The experience is nothing like the crowded room at the Louvre where people jam together to get their selfie with the Mona Lisa. It was more of a highlight of the trip than I had anticipated.

One of my favorite moments in Milan was visiting the Chiesa di San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore, a 16th century cloistered church and former monastery. It was spectacular with beautifully preserved frescos in each chapel, and its own Last Supper, which properly led to the dining hall for the monks. A fact of so many of those frescoes throughout Italy that I had not known before this visit.

Four gelato spots in three days seemed almost enough and, though I don’t drink much in my regular life, wine flowed with every meal. I am best described as a situational drinker now. I don’t save it for a special occasion like a birthday, but rather the right location and moment. A decision to have a crisp white wine with a gorgeous spaghetti alle vongole in Milan was one of the many good decisions I made while visiting.

From Milan, we hopped on a flight to Copenhagen. A city that both Evangelina and I had been eager to visit. One that I am now unequivocally in love with, even if it only shared six hours of sunlight with us this time of year. The design, architecture, history, and blending of it all is unlike any place I’ve been to before. While it was dark and gray for most of our time there, the place was warm and welcoming. I found that the brightness poured from the buildings when the natural light was lacking.

I am still searching for the right word for the ease of being there, because it’s more than just about convenience. The city itself is so intentionally designed for humans, and it clearly works. The flow of bikes was mind-blowing at rush hour. Endless streams of commuters on two wheels, happening with incredible smoothness. Movement of people and their wheels through the bike lanes was as sleek as the design sensibilities of the city itself and the style of the people on their bikes. The lack of cars brought with it a quietness, the road noise that is all too common in most places a rare occurrence.

I don’t consider myself to be stylish. Copenhagen helped to reinforce that idea. The fashion sense of so many was overwhelmingly inspiring. Overcoats draping those commuters on their bikes. Wide-legged, beautifully tailored slacks everywhere. I wish that my friend Darren was alongside me, because with each fit better than the last, I thought of his Substack often and hope to one day hear his thoughts on the city and its fashion.

Our second full day was easily my favorite day in Copenhagen. We took a trip to the Louisiana Museum, a short train ride up the coast from Copenhagen Station. Followed by a traditional Danish Christmas Lunch at a classic cafe near our apartment. The museum grounds were stunning. The retrospective of Marisol’s work, striking.

Our trip back from the museum was a crowded one with the small train full of people heading into the city for a Saturday filled with activity. Evangelina and I found seats in separate cars. I sat behind a group of some of the most stylish teenage boys I’ve ever seen, more put together than almost all of the adults I know back home. Tailored pants once again, layers of shirts and jackets that made me question their age. There wasn’t an ounce of the 1980’s preppiness that dominates young adult style back home. The pile of empty chip bags and monster energy drinks left on the table between their seats, the only confirmation of their real age and that teenage boys have the same tendencies wherever they are, regardless of how dressed up they are.

From the train station, Evangelina and I hopped on a subway back to our apartment. We were once again surrounded by groups of revelers, including four guys around our age standing right in front of us in the crowded train. They had the vibrancy of a group of friends out for a hang that they had been looking forward to since last year.

That was confirmed as we walked to our lunch reservation from our apartment after a quick break. That same group of gentleman from the subway stop an hour earlier, walked into the cafe just before us. A signal that we had chosen the right place for our first traditional Danish meal. The cafe was established in the late 1700s in Christianshavn. It was a meal that had worried us a bit, having never tried herring before and knowing about the set meal that was about to be placed on our table. Our fears were appeased almost immediately, with the first bite of Christmas Herring. Cured with spices and a bit of sweetness, lacking any of the fishiness that I had anticipated.

The entire meal was delicious and we were surrounded by tables, like those four men from the subway, deep in their annual merriment. We had one glass of Snaps with zero desire to try to catch up to the amount being poured at the rest of the tables. A lovely two plus hour meal with a fish course, a meat tray, and rice pudding with one of our bowls hiding an almond that would be rewarded by its discovery with a gift from the restaurant.

That particular day ended with more wandering through this incredible city before heading to one of the main Christmas Markets, Evangelina’s favorite place to be. I shocked my kids by sending a picture of the two of us with Santa…an idea that surprised me as much as everyone else. I blame the Snaps from earlier. While still full from an incredible lunch, we couldn’t resist getting a sausage and frankfurter at the market before heading home. A day that I would be happy to experience again. One that felt that we had truly been in a place, part of this beautiful city. The depth of connection to be within something new and truly experiencing it fully.

I wish we had more than four days in Copenhagen. We will definitely return, though probably during a time of year where there is more lightness than darkness. The delicate pastries, delightful coffee shops, smørrebrød, and one of the best roast pork sandwiches I have ever had will all be there upon our return.

On the eighth of December I woke up in Copenhagen to finally catch up to Evangelina and so many of our friends to turn fifty. After a quick walk to experience the first bit of actual sunlight, and just the slightest amount of blue sky since arriving, we were off to the airport for the final leg of our journey home in Amsterdam.

I looked forward to that birthday dinner at the only fine-dining meal of our trip. Upscale, but not wildly fancy. Welcoming, beautiful, and delicious. Much like walking towards the water in Antibes, I could not wait to see Evangelina’s reaction to this restaurant. Built beside its greenhouse, in a building that was itself a greenhouse. For those that don’t know, Evangelina is a plant lady and has been systematically tearing out grass and planting gardens at our home. Our table wasn’t quite ready when we arrived and I’m not sure that the host knew the level of excitement that he would elicit when he asked, “Would you like to tour the greenhouse while we finish setting up your table?”

Amsterdam, and its non-stop flight to Austin was always going to be the end of our trip. It was also the city where I let the majority of my anxieties about returning home interfere with our time. As is true with any trip, no matter how long, sometimes the last day or two can feel as though you’re just prolonging the inevitable return to reality. Longing for more time in Copenhagen wasn’t helping my mind settle back into the present for very long.

On our final day though, those worries were paused by once again getting to spend time with friends who have made the choice to live abroad. That day was centered around a tour of Preacher’s new office in Amsterdam, followed by a long lunch full of winding and inspiring conversations with friends who have recently moved overseas.

After lunch, Evangelina and I wandered the streets a bit longer. As I was standing in front of the Rijksmuseum, holding my camera and looking for the right moment for a photo, I heard my name shouted from a bike. My friend Stirling, post-lunch, was passing through the park on her commute home from school pick-up with her kids in the large cargo carrier in front. A lovely, unexpected moment to help close out this part of the journey home.

Now, firmly back in Austin, besides settling into life at home, I have been back in my studio, a space that I quite literally hit pause on almost two months ago, during what is typically my busiest time of year. A space that is mine for only a month and half longer.

I have already unpacked my new work from the gigantic suitcases that I have been hauling throughout our travels these last two weeks. I have spent the last couple of days in the studio photographing and documenting my new work, both for myself and for my upcoming Holiday Sale…which, by the way, includes a print sale of many of the film and digital photographs that I made during my time abroad.

The speed of reality, and the move back to the administrative work of this studio has returned. I’m hopeful that this already accelerating run of work will move as smoothly as those stylish commuters on their bikes in Copenhagen.