Dispatch #2: The Detour Is the Journey

Originally, this post was supposed to be called “Cinque Terre: Scouting the Dream.” I had spent six months studying Boccaccio’s Decameron, building a course around it, and planning to bring my first group to Italy to walk, read, and think together—launching Off Road Scholars with a literary trek along the Ligurian coast.

But the dream took a detour. And then it moved to the Azores. And then it took a nap. And then it moved into my dad’s living room. So yeah—new title.

Let’s rewind. It was April 2023, right after I posted that first dispatch. I was about to fly to Europe—Slovenia, Venice, Cinque Terre—the works. My friends had even sent me a GoPro for my birthday so I could document my very own “Literary Go-Go” launch. The plan was to hike all the trails, test out hotels and restaurants, meet with local guides—do the real, sweaty, clipboard-in-hand work that comes before a trip can be born. I had every intention of doing just that.

But then... I got super sick. Not the kind of sick where you can rally with croissants and cappuccinos and call it a “little malaise.” I’m talking full-blown RSV, drowning-in-my-lungs, “I-think-I’m-dying-in-the-Munich-Airport” sick. I hadn’t even fully planned the Cinque Terre leg yet because my brain was already running on fumes back stateside. Honestly, I almost didn’t go on this trip at all. The day I left for the airport, my dad even said, “I really don’t think you should travel.”

But I did. Because sometimes your body says no, your brain says maybe, and your wife says, Don’t worry, babe—I’ve got you.

Somehow I made it to Slovenia. Bled is normally one of my favorite places on Earth, but this time, I experienced it mostly from a horizontal position. Ten full days in a hotel bed, whispering sweet nothings to my tissue box and weakly waving at R whenever she brought me meals. I submitted final grades from under the covers and didn’t leave the room until Day 10. I did eventually paddleboard on the lake, which sounds like a triumphant finale—but let’s be honest: it was more “pasty ghost on a paddleboard” than comeback queen.

Bound for the church in the middle of Lake Bled.

By Venice, I was improving, but still in recovery mode. Each morning, I wandered the streets with a cappuccino in one hand and a fragile glass souvenir in the other, unsure where I was headed next—but letting the city hold me while I figured it out. I’d crash hard after lunch—my excuse: a siesta—but the skies were overcast more often than not, and a light rain fell most afternoons, slicking the stone alleys and turning the canal water a deeper green. The truth was, I wasn’t feeling great, and I needed the hotel Wi-Fi to make a plan.

Un caffè, per favore. Sta piovendo.

Slippery when wet!

I still hadn’t booked anything for Cinque Terre. Monterosso al Mare—the town I’d imagined as the home base for Trip #1—was now just a pinned map fantasy. Everything I’d envisioned for Off Road Scholars suddenly felt too heavy—too crowded, too full, too much. I kept checking the weather. The May temps were scorching. Just looking at the forecast made my fever flicker back to life.

I realized I couldn’t rush recovery. It would take as long as it would take. For the moment, the best I could do was enjoy what was in front of me—wet cobblestones, the smell of rain-soaked brick and morning pastries, the occasional shaft of sun breaking through over a bell tower—and trust that whatever came next would find me when I was ready.

R suggested I stay in Europe. Do something. You’re already here.

With my energy and clarity both on a strict budget, I knew I needed something quiet, green, weird, and walkable. 

I texted friends. 

I searched for cheap flights out of Venice. 

I landed on the Azores.

Total reset. The Azores, a middle-of-the-Atlantic archipelago that’s actually part of Portugal, looked like what might happen if Hawaii and Ireland had a love child. Think green cliffs draped in mist, crater lakes rimmed with wildflowers, and a landscape that feels ancient, enchanted, and a little otherworldly. I hiked volcanic calderas, soaked in hot springs, stared at hydrangeas the size of my head, and finally—finally—felt the Off Roads spark flicker back to life. I thought: This could work. This could really be something.

Only one problem: I needed a book.

A Portuguese friend suggested Luís de Camões. I read The Lusiads. I tried. I really did. But reading about colonial conquest like it’s a noble pastime? Nope. Hard pass. I want to hike with students and read something that pushes us forward, not backward.

Enter José Saramago.

Back in the U.S., I devoured Saramago’s The Stone Raft, curled up with a blanket and a sense of purpose. Then I read more by him. Then I added Saramago to my imaginary dinner party list (He was sitting next to Mel Brooks and Tina Fey—until, while prepping a World Lit class in Spring 2025, I realized he’d absolutely hit on Tina. So I rerouted him with a quiet tour of the library and a good bottle of port). His work was playful, philosophical, and politically sharp—exactly the kind of voice I wanted echoing through a literary trek.

So now I had a book. A vision. A plan.

I started aiming for a Spring 2024 trip.

Then—January 17, 2024.

My dad got diagnosed with an aggressive cancer.

Cue full stop. Everything else slid off the table. Off Road Scholars went on indefinite hold while I moved deeper into caregiver mode.

And now? It’s May 2025. Home health care is starting to fall into place. My dad’s cancer has stabilized. Things are shifting again, and I’m ready to move with them.

Off Road Scholars isn’t dead. It’s just been rerouted. The detour has become the story. I’ve got a few more dispatches to send.

I’ve got a few ideas in motion - Azores, Italy, Greece, or maybe something surprising. My big question for this summer is: Which adventure first? If you’ve got a strong feeling about which one you’d want to read (or walk!) your way through first, drop me a note. I’m listening.

More soon.

xo,

GoGo