We walked the full 1.7 miles across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was unseasonably hot. Remnants of leave-in conditioner dripped down my forehead. Well, it wasn’t actually leave-in conditioner. It was regular conditioner but I left it in to maintain that fresh-out-the-shower look after a five-hour flight. Nothing wrong with a lil’ male vanity while pushing 50. 

Suicide prevention signs were posted on the bridge. For those still interested in jumping, a gray suicide net was there to catch ’em. Amber and I had a brief self-harm talk with the boys but got distracted as they spotted their favorite cars speeding next to us. “That’s an M4!” or “MINI! THERE’S ANOTHER MINI!” 

We caught an Uber and bus to Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s a tourist trap in need of renovation. We ate bread bowls of clam chowder and fish tacos from a food truck called The Codmother. The best part of the Wharf was the walk away from it: cable cars and classic homes. That and the boys physically pushing an exhausted Amber up the hill and back to the hotel.  

Later that night we walked to Union Square to grab food from a Middle Eastern carryout. The people were…eclectic? Young partiers, addicts, mentally ill but happy, mentally ill and angry, and rich techies splurging in upscale restaurants. 

A stooped White man with a red bruise on his crown asked me for food. “Sorry” was all I gave. I would have bought him a sandwich but the environment had me on edge and ready to go into kick-bite-punch mode. The kids were upset that I didn’t give the man food. “Dada, just buy him something.” We briefly looked for him after our order was ready. No luck. I told them we’d probably see him tomorrow and I’d buy him a meal. I knew that wasn’t likely. 

The next day we walked another 20,000 steps across the city. (Thanks for the analytics, Fitbit.) From Nob Hill to Chinatown to Union Square to Mission District. Ca$$iu$, our middle child, among many observations, cupped my ear and whispered, “Why are there so many gay people…and lesbians, too?” I’m sure there’s a historical answer to the question, but I was trying to enjoy the views. “I think people like to live where they feel comfortable and where they can be free.”

I enjoyed the Mission District the most. As far as places with endless stretches of shops, bars, and restaurants, Valencia Street in the Mission is right up there with Magazine Street in New Orleans and Old Town Bilbao in Spain. I’d like to spend a few months each year in any of those cities once I get the kids off the payroll, preferably at 12:01 a.m. on their 18th birthdays. 

From the Mission District, the five of us took the bus to Ocean Beach. Well, first we took the wrong bus and had to get off, but we arrived at the beach about an hour later. I’m not a huge beach guy thanks to a sun allergy, but what makes Ocean Beach unique is that it runs parallel to the Great Highway. A highway that’s closed to vehicles and functions as a big ol’ boardwalk.

Following Ocean Beach, we took the BART to Berkeley. A plump Latino teen boarded and announced himself before playing the accordion as part of a one-man Norteño band. He held a hat for tips and we gave him five dollars. His performance, and my boys bodyrolling while holding the subway grab rail, made for an entertaining 40-minute trip. 

We stepped off the train and headed straight to the University of California, Berkeley for a self-guided tour. UC Berkeley’s one of the nicest campuses I’ve visited. But one thing bothered me about the campus and the San Fran overall: They’re hardcore about who can use “public” bathrooms. You must buy something from a store with a bathroom or have an ID card that scans you into a campus building. And even if you buy something from a store they might say their bathrooms don’t work. We saw a homeless guy whip his dong out mid-afternoon to pee in public. No shame. I get it! 

After dinner in Berkeley, and about 10 hours of roaming through the Bay, we got back to our hotel in Nob Hill around 11pm. Amber gave in and let the boys watch South Park for the first time. It was a good distraction while she and I went to Top of the Mark, our hotel’s rooftop bar. I still got some YN in me, so the crowd was too old for my preference. We left and walked down California Street to find a cocktail bar. Two drinks later (at $18 each!) we caught a Waymo back to the hotel and called it a night. 

Our brief stay in San Francisco ended early that Sunday afternoon. We took an Uber to the airport and rented a car for the one-hour drive down Highway 1 to Santa Cruz, where we spent the next two nights. 

In Santa Cruz we stayed at an Airbnb just up the cliff from College Girl Thong Beach. That’s not its official name but it’s descriptive. We also went to Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Jordan Peele’s “Us” was filmed there, and I’m sure it set a record for most Negros ever assembled in Santa Cruz at one time. Counting myself, my kids, and one brotha who didn’t even nod his head when we made eye contact, I only saw 3.5 of us there over two days.

We didn’t do much else in Santa Cruz besides go to the beach and walk around downtown. We mostly cooked and laughed at the boys, or yelled when they fought. They’re older now and doing their own thing with friends and school activities. It was nice to see the three of them hang out together uninterrupted. Ca$$iuS grabbed Nile by the shoulders and half-jokingly said, “You’re so broad. You’re so strong. You’re so masculine. You’re an inspiration!” Larke, the runt, yelled, “Stop glazing him!” 

We drove back to San Fran’s airport the following afternoon, shortly after making the obligatory stop at In-N-Out (which is like five minutes from the airport). Like every city we’ve visited, the boys are considering moving to San Francisco.

-Dewan Gibson

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I envisioned Rehoboth Beach as a Gatsby-ish place where people use “summer” as a verb. And there’s some of that. Just check out the five million dollar homes near the boardwalk. But Rehoboth is also laid back and inclusive. More importantly, I think it has the biggest and cleanest beach boardwalk I’ve seen. If you’re looking for a classic beach town for the fam, Rehoboth’s your spot. Here are some pictures from our trip. (Shout-out to my Pixel 9 Pro for the Night Sight picture above.)

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We caught a Sunday evening direct flight with Southwest from Columbus to Vegas. It was like $250 per seat and nearly empty. We could have had our own rows, but Amber and I did skin-to-skin contact with the kids at birth and they still like to be near us.

Our flight was delayed two hours. Nothing was wrong; Southwest wanted to wait for a VIP employee who was arriving late and needed to get to Vegas. At least they were honest. We got to Vegas around midnight and walked the quiet Strip. All good. We were tired and it was still 100 degrees. We ate Shake Shack and called it a night.

We stayed at the Park MGM on The Strip. Two rooms (unfortunately not adjoined but on the same floor) for three nights ran us $750. Well, $600 because I opened a credit card with Wells Fargo and had a $150 Expedia credit after spending $1,000. Of course this was before those damn resort fees, which were $50 per night, per room.

MGM gave us $150 in dining credits, which we used to buy rich ni^^@ food, like a lil’ seafood salad for $30. The rooms were nice but not as nice as the casino itself. Still, it’s the only non-smoking casino hotel on The Strip and it was cool to return home cancer-free.

We spent Monday afternoon at one of Park MGM’s three pools. It’s a family atmosphere. You can order liquor and be served by thong-wearing waitresses (not pictured, fellas).

We saw Cirque du Soleil Mystère later that night. I didn’t fully understand the story, but outside of Teen Wolf the performers are some of the greatest athletes I’ve ever seen. Tickets are half off most nights because the economy isn’t as good as your president (not mine!) says.

After the show, we walked around the Venetian and threw down at In-N-Out Burger. I’m biased as a former Californian, but it’s the best $5 burger on Earf.

We gambled for a bit when we got back to Park MGM. I lost $10 in 13 seconds and security told the kids to step off the gaming floor.

After a big back breakfast at Blueberry Hill, we spent almost all of Tuesday at NBA Summer League, watching five games. I highly recommend. You won’t know most of the players unless you’re a hardcore basketball fan, but man, those young boys were playing hard and fighting for jobs.

Amber was a trooper. She stayed the entire time and held spots in the autograph lines. The kids also met Shai Gilgeous Alexander’s dad, Vaughn Alexander. Cassius (my middle kid) reminded me that “SGA was in his (Vaughn’s) balls!!!”

We spent the rest of our last night in Vegas walking The Strip. The Bellagio’s Conservatory & Botanical Gardens were interesting. That’s some serious topiary. Just check out the sexy zebra.

After three nights, our trip was over. I usually try to avoid more than two nights in Vegas, but I wanted the kids to have a memorable experience. Nah, I’m lying. It was cheap. Might as well stay an extra night.

-Dewan Gibson

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We arrived at 473 Grenada Boutique Resort. The owner’s daughter led us to our villa. It was our 10th wedding anniversary and we were upgraded to the baller suite. Not on account of our celebration of swirl love…a pipe had burst in our reserved unit. They moved us into the nicest hotel/resort/Airbnb room we’ve ever stayed in.

After dinner at the resort, we hit a couple of bars. When I think of a night out in the Caribbean, I picture glistening bodies dry humping on a packed dance floor. But, as forewarned by Carl (and the internet), Grenada’s not a party place.

I mean, there were college girls dancing on top of a table at West Indies Brewing Company, but there was also a baby hanging out on Dad’s shoulder. We did our 40 and over two-step to a few songs and then went next door to Junction.

Junction was more of our speed. We watched a dancehall band and ate chicken wings. Amber was finishing up a white rum when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was our other driver, Weno, a friendly guy who had shown us his house and the BMW he uses for luxury pickups. But it was almost 1 a.m. (bar closing time) and he was ready to peace out. Time to go!

We spent our entire Sunday on and around Grand Anes beach. White sand, no litter, and surprisingly not very crowded for an 80 degree day. Thanks to a sun allergy, I hid under sea grape trees while Amber had that donk donking in the ocean. I did get in the water for a quick dip, but that was to show off my lush chest mane, which had yet to be revealed in the Caribbean.

It rained for about an hour and we found shelter at Grand Anse Craft and Spice Market. We ate lambi (fried sea snails) and drank with locals and their chickens. It got dark around 5:30. We grabbed groceries from IGA and caught a ride back to 473.

We’ve traveled a fair amount, but I don’t think we’ve ever done an actual tour. We explore by getting in 20,000 steps a day and/or landing wherever public transit or a rental car takes us. But as mentioned, driving in Grenada takes some getting used to. They drive on the left side and I wasn’t about to learn in four days.

So we booked a full-day group tour across the island with Henry Safari. We swam under Concord Falls, bought a grip of candy bars at Diamond Chocolate Factory, sampled 75% ABV rum at River Antoine Rum Distillery, got a history lesson of the island from my distant uncle/tour leader Michael, ate barracuda near the ocean, and saw mona monkeys in Grand Etang National Park.

We were exhausted after the tour and returned to the resort for Netflix and wine. Like most 40-somethings, we talked about going out the next day but ended up lounging at 473 until it was time to catch our flight. And once I got on that flight…knocked out.

It’s not often that we visit the same place twice, but we’re going back to far too underrated Grenada with the kids. It’s safe (strict gun laws), colorful, its people are welcoming, the weather’s perfect, and from what I’ve seen, tied with San Sebastian for best beaches in the world. You might wanna check it out.

-Dewan Gibson

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The 10-hour drive to Savannah was relatively easy, thanks to an overnight stop in Charlotte, North Carolina. The only hiccup was multiple accidents on I-77, which forced us to take Route 321 through rural South Carolina. 

Man…small town poverty in the Deep South is something else. Rural South Carolina towns off 321, oddly named after Scandinavian countries (Denmark, Sweden, and Norway), were in ruins. Outside of a Chinese restaurant or liquor store here and there, there was little sign of life.

Anyhow, poverty pics are not my thing. So here are a couple pictures of nicer things we saw: a colorful Mustang whose wheels may or may not be able to turn and a Piggly Wiggly offering a soul food special. 

Tacos don’t come to mind when you think of Savannah, but Tacos +Tequila was our first stop after checking in to our Airbnb. No worries about authenticity. Brown folks made ’em and the tacos were similar to what I’ve had in Baja California.

From there, we walked around the historic district. Our two youngest kids weaved through crowds, pausing only when I told them to “stop acting like crackheads!” Of course they continued until the cold got the best of them. (It was in the mid-30s at night.)

Not before we took a stroll down River Street. The views were cool and we found hidden tunnels where you could hang out with ghosts.

We began the next day with a 4.5 mile drive and hike through Savannah National Wildlife Refuge. If you’re into bird watching, this is your spot. We also saw alligators. Feeling brave? There aren’t many barriers in the park. You can pet a gator and see if it’s up for a selfie.

Next, we drove to Forsyth Park. As you can see in the picture taken near the fountain, the runt of my litter was suffering from Fortnite withdrawals. He cheered up when he got to the playground. There was also a stage where he and his bros had the chance to “emote.” (Fortnite terminology, don’t even bother.)

We also checked out nearby mansions and Jones Street, widely known as “the prettiest street in Savannah.” I don’t know about all that, but I liked the house representing our hometown Buckeyes.

After our walk, we were lured into a tourist trap seafood spot. I won’t name the restaurant because I’m hoping to be more selective with my hate in 2025. Just know that it’s on Broughton Street and their clam chowder ain’t have no clam in it.

After the seafood disappointment, I wanted a guaranteed good dinner. So I bought a big ass ribeye from Whole Foods. The doorbell rang as I was cooking. I thought maybe our Airbnb host double-booked or it was an attempted home invasion. (The latter thought comes from watching too much true crime.)

The person at the door said, “DoorDash for Amber Gibson!” I looked at Amber like, “We don’t even use DoorDash.” She confirmed that she ordered, so I opened the door.

It was my best friend and his husband. They had driven up from Miami and conspired with Amber to surprise me. Gotta keep my eye on those three.

Nothing like a rainy walk through a cemetery to catch up with old friends and show the kids a good time. The following afternoon, we did a self-guided tour of Bonaventure Cemetery, made famous by the book and film “Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil.” There were thousands of centuries-old graves, many with elaborate headstones.

After the cemetery, we had lunch at Simple Soul of Savannah. It’s a new black-owned restaurant, not too far from Forsyth Park. Their collard greens put mine to shame, and theirs didn’t even have bacon in ’em. The baked chicken was all juicy and falling off the bone. I tore it up. Amber got a thick bowl of shrimp and grits. The kids got fried chicken. “Dada, this tastes better than Chick-fil-A.”

We spent the rest of our last full day in Savannah at Tybee Island. It was only like 55 degrees, unfortunately not thong weather, but at least we had the beach to ourselves. The kids didn’t mind either way and ran around like it was summer.

Tybee’s beach isn’t as stunning as San Sebastian’s, for example, but it was really clean and reminded me of Pacific Beach in San Diego. It’s a good beach vacation spot if you want to skip the crowds at nearby Hilton Head.

We packed up the next morning with tentative plans to stop in Charlotte for the night. The Charlotte Hampton Inn we stayed in on the way down was newish and within walking distance of a sushi restaurant and Trader Joe’s. These are the finer things in life for just $113 a night.

But there were severe storms and tornado warnings throughout the region. Visibility was poor, so I did what any good dad would do after being inspired by “Twisters.” I drove 10 hours through the storm and made it home before midnight.

-Dewan Gibson

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My wife didn’t think the kids were ready for a 15-hour flight. I was like, “Really? They spend 15 hours watching YouTube Shorts! Give ’em some melatonin and internet and they’re good.”

But I didn’t want to break my decade-long streak of winning marital arguments, so Japan was shelved. In its place for summer 2024? Seattle, Washington. The birthplace of the great Sir Mix-A-Lot and a whole lot more.

We stayed at an Airbnb in Ballard. It’s a well-to-do neighborhood maybe 15 minutes from downtown Seattle. I wanted a place in the city, but I was wary due to reports of mass homelessness and addiction. I didn’t see it as a safety issue—I’ve been lifting weights and wishing a ninja would—but we’ve been around urban blight. I know my high-decibel middle child will pass someone and shout, “DADA! IS HE HIGH?!?”

Still, downtown was not as bad as media led me to believe. The Supreme Court has been on a erosion of freedoms kick and recently criminalized homelessness. Maybe there was a dystopian sweep in time for peak summer tourism?

We walked over 20,000 steps through and around downtown. Pike Place Market, Olympic Sculpture Park, Queen Anne, an overpriced taco shop (Seattle is crazy expensive), and the largest, most elaborate coffee shop I’ve seen: Starbucks Reserve Roastery.

Oh yeah…speaking of addiction, recreational marijuana is legal and dog-friendly in Washington state. I visited a dispensary to conduct research for the well-respected news site you’re reading.

We spent the following afternoon at a Seattle Mariners game. It’s one of baseball’s nicer stadiums, with a retractable roof and concession stand value menu. So no need to put to put a bag of popcorn on layaway. The Mariners lost and only got like five hits, but we did get a picture next to the Ken Griffey Jr. statue while being condemned to hell.

We went to Alki Beach after the game. It had a boardwalk and shops and looked similar to what you’d find in Southern California. Except it was cold and there were no thong-wearing Brazilian transplants. The weather didn’t stop the kids from purposely getting soaked by sneaker waves.

After more tacos, we grabbed poke and clam chowder at Seattle Fish Company in West Seattle. I actually wasn’t sure about buying anything, but the owner, after seeing my oldest in his Cleveland Guardians gear, gave the kids free baseballs. Can’t go wrong with kindness!

We spent most of the next day driving along the Chinook Scenic Byway towards Mount Rainier. I had my first “wow moment” of the trip. According to the smart folks on The Happiness Lab podcast, a wow moment is an awe-inducing experience that gives you goosebumps. You may have felt this way when you called off work and to watch all 33 chapters of R. Kelly’s “Trapped In The Closet.” Anyway, if near Mount Rainier, be sure to not awe your ass off a cliff. The roads are curvy.

On our fourth and final full day in Seattle, we got dizzy touring the Space Needle. The elevator takes you up 600 feet. Then you walk around a capsule that’s slowly moving. Then you see the food and drink prices and hurry down before the kids ask for something.

We spent the next two nights in Blaine, Washington. It’s steps away from Canadian border and just 30 miles from Vancouver, British Columbia. Vancouver was our original post-Seattle weekend destination, but they’ve banned Airbnb. Sharing a hotel room with kids is not conducive for doing grown folk thangs. We cut the Vancouver trip to one night.

I would have never guessed my 45th birthday would be spent in Blaine, Washington, but I enjoyed it. We stole berries from birds, drank beer, ate sushi from a startup restaurant inside a gas station, went sightseeing at the local Dank of America, hiked, completed a rock throwing competition, climb bent trees, and managed to grab Indian food just before the city shut down at 9 p.m.

We only had 24 hours in the last stop of our week-long trip, Vancouver. One of those hours was spent in search of parking. Vancouver’s a busy city, even on a Sunday afternoon. Lesson learned: Just pay the damn $50 for hotel parking.

Once settled, we ate at a barbecue joint in Chinatown. The food tasted great, but it activated a demon in my gut. Amber and the kids were fine, but I had to go into clenched cheeks mode towards the end of the mile walk back to the hotel. I’m only sharing this to remind others with faulty digestive systems to stake out public bathrooms and prep accordingly when traveling. Don’t be ashamed. You’re not alone.

The highlight of our short stay in Vancouver was the six-mile bike ride in Stanley Park. It’s a huge ocean-side park with playgrounds and beaches. Of course the water’s only 50 degrees, but that’s never stopped the Gibson boys.

Our night ended with Arabic food, and for me, an urgent pit stop in Safeway for Pepto and the lavatory.

We drove back to Seattle the next day for out flight home. I’ve accumulated enough miles for another trip to Seattle. Or maybe we’ll earn more and finally make it to Japan?

-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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Amber and I got to Hartford at 1 a.m., three hours later than planned. We lost an hour waiting on wheelchair assistance for an elderly couple. Once we boarded, we had to deplane due to an issue with a door sensor. Breeze’s “contract mechanic” was off for the night. I don’t know the details, but I imagined a guy laid up watching Sportscenter, ass crack showing above his sagging pajama pants, answering his phone after three call attempts, like, “Yeah, aiight. Be there when I get there.” 

Hartford might not be the best place for late night food. We found one spot open: the Triple-A Diner. The menu had like 200 options. From lobster and steak to omelets. We split a double burger and salad and called it a night. 

We got five hours of sleep at the Hampton Inn. I still had enough energy to make the five-hour drive from Hartford to our final destination, Montreal. I suspect it’s because the night prior I went without a Victory Golden Monkey, or red wine, or Grand Marnier, or Harlequin.

That’s rare these days. I wish I could say that I picked up a drinking habit during the worst days of the pandemic. It actually started when television streaming really took off like 10 years ago. The two go hand-in-hand. I talked to my doctor and he said I’m fine. But I’m also in an obsessive middle-age health optimization phase. Antioxidants. Nose breathing. Superfoods. Fasting. Going sober would allow for better sleep and better brain health. I might also get my abs back.

I’m down to one beer most nights (albeit the aforementioned Golden Monkey with 9.5% ABV). And maybe I have a small glass of wine after the beer. On weekends, or a day that sort of feels like a weekend, I’ll have a five milligram edible to help with sleep. But I exercise every day and eat colorful foods. That’s an interesting compromise: work out and eat well so I can mistreat my body with substances.

After three hours of driving, we stopped in Burlington, Vermont. We bought a bunch of food from Trader Joe’s and saw a rainbow from the highway. It seemed to be a pleasant city/college town and I was glad to integrate it. We fit right in with our rented Subaru Outback, though I also should have worn my Birkenstocks.

A couple of hours later, we were in Montreal. We checked into our Airbnb. It had an outdoor shower and a painting of a red woman with a big ol’ donk. The unit was in Le Plateau, the hippest of hip neighborhoods. It’s walkable with more restaurants and bars than you could visit in a year. There’s plenty of street art and local shops. Best of all, you don’t have to give much thought to getting shot. No matter how tough Drake tries to sound these days, Montreal and Canada as a whole do not adhere to the United States’ worship of guns and violent conflict resolution.

We got the party started in Montreal the right way! By buying Nizoral 2% ketoconazole shampoo. It’s prescription only in the U.S. but available over the counter in Canada. Apparently it slows down hair loss, which reduces the number of times my kids yell “Look at Dada’s v-cut!”

I asked for the shampoo in stammered French. “Avez-vous…niz…ketocoza..?” The pharmacist scowled, cut me off, and began speaking in English.

From there, we ate at a ramen spot and picked up magic figs from the guv’ment’s marijuana spot: Société Québécoise du Cannabis (SQDC). We wandered and found a speakeasy, Big In Japan, where we nursed fancy cocktails that were inexpensive thanks to the strong U.S. dollar. The bartender suggested a nightclub, but munchies hit and we returned to our Airbnb. We smashed a bloody flank steak, a whole bag of chips, and two chocolate bars. Gluttony. Lovely gluttony. 

We did a good amount of touristy stuff during our 2018 family trip to Montreal, but it’s a large city and you miss a lot when lugging kids around. So this time Amber and I explored more on foot. Walking 10-plus miles on a rainy afternoon through the Port of Montreal, Old Montreal, and neighborhoods nearby. Afterwards, we gave in to achy calves and caught an Uber back to Le Plateau, where we split a Lebanese meal at Omnivore.

After a nap, we hit the streets and stumbled upon Candi Bar. It’s a nightclub/bar where they serve weak drinks at high prices and charge $4 for a mandatory coat check. The music’s cool and the crowd is young. I felt out of place wearing my new Banana Republic sweater, looking all business casual like I wanted to discuss the Federal Reserve’s recent interest rate hikes.

By 10 p.m., the weather was getting worse. Rain and wind and not too many people willing to brave it for a night out. We left Candi Bar and had a drink and popcorn at a more mature bar called Urbanista. We then stopped next door at Le Majestique. It’s a late night restaurant that’s famous for its seafood. We shared oysters. Thanks to a crusted-over squeeze bottle, I splashed hot sauce all over the sweater that was to be my featured piece of winter clothing from 2023 to 2025. It also got in my eye. I saw that as a sign to take my old ass home. We ordered a burger and poutine to-go from Patati Patata and caught an Uber back to the apartment.

We left Montreal first thing Sunday morning. The border line into Vermont was short, and unlike our entry into Canada we were not asked rapid fire questions about guns and drugs and what we plan to do. (Amber to the border agent: “Eat.”)

A few hours later we were back in Hartford. Our flight with Breeze Airways arrived and got us back to Ohio in time. Not bad for $100. Our next going-just-because-it’s-on-sale trip? Maybe a flight to Tampa, Florida followed by a drive/swim to Havana, Cuba.

-Dewan Gibson

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Our first stop in Basque Country was Bilbao. We stayed in an Airbnb in Old Town (Casco Viejo) that was right next to a courtyard where the boys could disturb the peace and behave like they ain’t got no home training. We ate pinxtos—lil’ meat and bread finger foods—like locals and drank cheap Rioja wine. The tiny restaurants were kid-friendly. You go in, grab food and drink, and hop to the next bar to set a bad example for your offspring.

During our time in Bilbao, we walked more than 10 miles each day. It’s not that their public transportation isn’t efficient (it is), or that I want the kids to have strong, muscular calves like their mom; it’s that the best way to explore a city is by foot.

We walked across Zubizuri bridge, took a 30-minute metro ride/20 minute walk to Playa de Plentzia, took a cable car to Mount Artxanda, and so on. We also checked out the world-famous Guggenheim Bilbao Museum.

The kids weren’t initially too excited about going to a museum. (“Is it just one of those places where they have pictures in frames?”) But they had a good ol’ time. It’s spacious with large sculptures that you can climb. Well, at least no one told us not to. And there’s a large playground outside. Speaking of…Bilbao has playgrounds galore. They’re everywhere and strategically located near cantinas where you can have a drink while watching your kids.

After five days in Bilbao, we rented a diesel wagon and drove to San Sebastian. It’s a fancy seaside community that reminds me of La Jolla, California, but with more people wearing thongs and Speedos.

By “fancy” I don’t mean expensive. San Sebastian’s more costly than Bilbao, but a glass of beer and wine at a pintxos bar is still only $2 to $3. (Bar recommendation: The “secret bar” hidden near the top of Monte Urgull.)

The city is also known for its Michelin-starred restaurants. Apparently, it has the most per capita of any city in Europe. My kids are too ill-behaved for restaurants, let alone fancy restaurants, so we ate the aforementioned pintxos and cooked in our Airbnb. We also went into typical American mode and ate at McDonald’s. But guess what? A salad and beer is included with a value meal.

Three of our four days in San Sebastian were spent on the beach. Amber and the kids jumped waves. I have a sun allergy, so I sat with a towel draped over my head and monitored the scene to make sure no one harassed topless sunbathers.

It rained off and on during our final day in San Sebastian. We took the funicular up Monte Igeldo to visit what’s referred to as a “vintage” amusement park. The lone roller coaster does not have seat belts. It’s deceptively scary. And fun. We thought it was a baby ride, but it has a couple hills and you’re close enough to the cliff to feel like you might fall off. If visiting, be sure to check if your health insurance offers international coverage.

After San Sebastian, we were on our way to Bordeaux, France. Bordeaux’s not part of Basque Country, but you have to drive through French Basque Country to get there. The drive took about three hours…and $7.65 for a gallon of gas! We made a short-turned-long stop at Dune du Pilat, the largest sand dune in Europe. It’s about 350 feet high and almost two miles long. I run three times a week. I go on long walks nearly every day to make sure the giant crackhead down the street isn’t tearing up the neighborhood. The hike up Dune du Pilat still tore my calves up. But once you’re up, there’s ocean on the other side.

Bordeaux was an interesting intro to France. As we walked along the quai and through Chartrons, I was surprised to learn that it’s #TeamSwirl certified. We saw a bunch of mixed race couples. Black folks, too. Much different from Northern Spain, where I saw few black folks in Bilbao or San Sebastian just out enjoying themselves. Most were street vendors selling soccer jerseys. And I got a number of odd stares from older Spanish men. Even Amber noticed. The stares didn’t feel threatening. I’d say curiosity with an edge, like, “What’s this Negro doing up in here with this white woman?”

Anyhow, in addition to Bordeaux’s wine, a highlight of our two-night visit was our Airbnb. At first I thought we got scammed. The outside of the building looked like an old bomb shelter. Stairs leading to the unit were filled with cracked tiles. It reminded me of Cuba. But the inside of the unit was modern, minimalist, and Ikea-ized. It even had an enclosed dining room with an open rooftop.

After Bordeaux, we drove back to Bilbao and caught a flight to Dublin, Ireland. The following morning we were on our way back to Ohio. The kids held up surprisingly well throughout the trip. At home, a typical day out of school goes like this: watch YouTube, eat cereal, fight, play with friends, fight, eat more cereal, play Xbox, and fight one more time before bed. And they did much of the same during our trip to Basque Country. But they also developed a love for travel and a curiosity of how others live.

I’ve asked the kids to choose the location for our next big trip. They’re deciding between Japan and Rwanda. Now I just gotta finish paying off this trip.

-Dewan Gibson

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After way too many trips on Spirit and Frontier Airlines, it was nice to fly with a carrier that offers a full meal, media consoles on each seat, and a free carry-on. I thought the boys would get restless on the seven hour red-eye flight, but they barely slept, let alone complain.

Amber played Sudoku and sat between the wild child and our calm eldest. I was across the aisle sitting next to our runt. I had a bunch of movies downloaded and two books to read: “Men in My Situation” by Per Peterson and “The Awkward Black Man” by Walter Mosley. I read parts of each, but zoned out after drinking a vodka tonic. Then came a mental tangent about how the kids think I have super strength and athletic ability. They’re like, “Dada, can you try out for the NBA this year!” I’m 44 and weigh 152 pounds. I have to work on lowering their expectations of me.

After landing in Dublin, we checked into Herbert Park Hotel. It’s across from the U.S. embassy and has a stately feel. Well, more so the lobby and restaurant than the room, which was a lil’ musty even before my tweens put their stank in it. Still, the hotel was fine for a short stay and I appreciate the attendant bending the rules to let all five of us stay in one room.

Despite being sleepless for nearly 24 hours, we went straight to Howth, a seaside village 40 minutes east of Dublin via the metro. We ate at a seafood joint called Octopussy (“gigity!”) and hiked to Howth Head Peak, with Amber bribing the kids (and maybe herself?) with a reward of donuts for making it to the top.

After hours in Howth, we wandered O’Connell Street in central Dublin. By 9 p.m., known as 21:00 in Ireland and most of the world, were exhausted and in bed. I was intent on waking everyone up early the next morning so we could explore Dublin by foot. The most effective way to do this with kids who weren’t keen on walking 12-plus miles in a day is to repeatedly say your destination is “15 minutes away,” without letting them know that you have many destinations in mind. We explored Dublin Castle, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Grafton Street, and Ballsbridge.

The next morning, off to Basque Country!

-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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Fortunately, mild temperatures returned and we squeezed in a New Year’s Eve trip with the kids to Asheville, North Carolina. This after five years of repeatedly saying, “We gotta check out Asheville!”

My surface-level impressions after just three nights in the area: 1) For a city that ain’t really that big, there are a lot of breweries and drinking holes. And they’re unpretentious. Bring your dog! Bring your kids! Dressed like you’re in a Patagonia ad? Even better! 2) Locals seem welcoming, and there’s no anti-tourist vibe that you feel in other cities that have blown up in popularity. 3) It’s the ultimate city if you enjoy living in nature, yet also appreciate modern necessities like tacos with kimchi. 4) Asheville is sorely missing recreational marijuana.

We went on a muddy 90-minute hike in Moore Cove Falls Trail, about 20 minutes outside of Asheville. We took a picture near a waterfall (Looking Glass Falls) that generated a lot of Instagram likes. If our social media popularity continues to increase we may get a TV commercial deal portraying an affable biracial family that uses environmentally-friendly household products. There was also a giant boulder that looks like a troll/Marvel Comics’ The Thing if you stare at it from a certain angle.

Our little ones aren’t the biggest beer drinkers, but we brought them to two of the more kid-friendly breweries in the Asheville area: New Belgium Brewing and Whistle Hop Brewing. There’s a big ol’ outdoor space at New Belgium. The boys played soccer with other junior drinkers and scarfed down the smallest $25 pizza (from a nearby food truck) I’ve seen. Man, you can’t beat Domino’s large one-topping for $7.99 deal.

If you stop by New Belgium Brewing, or find it at your local store, try the Honey Orange Tripel. As for Whistle Hop, they had mini-golf, an actual train car for the kids to run around in, and some other activities that we didn’t do because it was raining.

We didn’t get the full Downtown Asheville experience. Our middle child was “middle-childing” and the youngest gave up on walking and just sat down in the middle of the sidewalk. Downtown’s mostly for larger humans (bars and restaurants galore), but the kids enjoyed playing board games at Well Played Cafe and asking to buy everything they saw at the little shops.

We spent New Year’s Eve at the North Carolina Arboretum’s Winter Lights. It was “epic,” as the kids say, and featured half a million lights. Of great controversy was the mushroom below, which Amber insisted was a jellyfish…in a gnome garden?

We stayed in a bungalow in Hendersonville, about 25 minutes outside of Downtown Asheville. It was one of those rare Airbnb homes that doesn’t charge you crazy cleaning fees while also requiring that you do the cleaning. “The Sweet Retreat” was stocked with free wine, snacks, tea tree shampoo and conditioner(!), and seasoning to make sure our New Year’s seafood buffet was Negro-appropriate. We hope to abandon the kids and stay there again during our next trip to Asheville.

-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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Columbus has world-class medical facilities, so I guess there are worse places to get shot. But the chances of that happening here are higher than San Diego. When I talk to Ohioans, they think cities like New York and Los Angeles are more violent. Nah, man! They’re larger and attract more attention. When you account for murders per 100,000 people, we’re near the belly of the beast. 

To be fair, I write this from the comfortable boredom of the ‘burbs. A world away from what’s only 15 minutes away. But by spending money and paying taxes, I’m indirectly supporting a state that’s indifferent about gun violence. A recent example: a bill just passed the Ohio Senate to allow concealed carry without a permit or training. (For the “What about Chicago and its strict gun laws!” crowd: Many guns used in Chicagoland crime come from neighboring states with basically no gun laws, like Indiana. See, they just mess it up for everybody. Yes, Chicago’s rough, but it’s not even a Top 10 most dangerous U.S. city.) 

You may have heard the phrase “speak it into existence.” It’s a euphemism for “lie to yourself,” and it’s enabled me to tolerate Ohio’s winters. As long as it’s 25 degrees and dry, I carry on like it’s spring. I go for daily runs and hardly ever wear a coat, unless we’re going somewhere nice. In that case, I wear my camel-colored topcoat, as popularized by young men who celebrate half-birthdays with brunch. Funny…just recently a guy at Nordstrom complimented my top coat. While wearing the same one. 

Anyway, when it’s snowing and in the 20s, as it is for maybe 15 to 30 days out of the year, I go into a depression. Well, it’s more of an extended fit of anger than depression. Symptoms include: mentally cursing neighbors who don’t shovel the sidewalk in front of their homes and searching Google Flights knowin’ I ain’t going nowhere.  

Also, and this is my last beef with Columbus, drivers here are careless and dangerous. We’ve already been in three hit-and-runs. In the first, Amber was rear-ended and left with a concussion. A witness gave chase, but the culprit got away. In the second accident, my car was rammed while parked on campus. In the most recent accident, the five of us were rear-ended…on the same street where Amber got hit. I pulled over thinking the lady was going to do the same, but she sped away, nearly hitting oncoming cars. I chased her in our big ol’ minivan, but had to stop because the fam was getting scared. Man, maybe I should get a gun? 

With all that said, I mostly enjoy living near “Cbus.” For one, it’s diverse. Just on my little street alone there are Salvadorans, Ethiopians, Indians, black folk and while folk, Vietnamese and a few #TeamSwirl families. Of course San Diego was diverse, too, but there weren’t many black people. Pretty much only my friend Will and his extended family.

And Columbus is growing. It now has a million residents. With that comes the benefits of big city living: tons of bars and restaurants and breweries, relatively easy access to marijuana, kind people who run up to your car at stoplights and ask to wash your windows, the country’s fourth largest university, a tech industry, and so on. There are lots of jobs. Even a slacker like me has managed to make and invest more money than ever. More importantly, we’re native Ohioans and it’s nice to be near our off-the-chain family.

Pickerington is our permanent homebase. I love our house, especially the basement. There’s enough room to jog or sit on the couch and watch sexy foreign thrillers on Netflix. Also, Amber and the kids have a lot of friends in town. I don’t, but I do feel close to the crew at Trader Joe’s. They say hello and ask how my day is going.

I’ll always have my issues with Central Ohio, but as the kids grow older and tire of my life lessons, I’ll parent remotely from somewhere sunny during the worst weeks of winter. I might even miss wearing a topcoat.

-Dewan Gibson

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We made a quick stop in Ravenswood, West Virginia for Christmas lunch at Great Wall Restaurant. Man, where would this country be without immigrants willing to feed us at any time, even on Jesus’ play birthday? We shared a house special fried house and Amber Joyner Kersee raced the kids in the parking lot.

I could have finished the entire drive in one day, had I been without impressionable children in the car and able to play Young Dolph (They don’t want you to live! They don’t want you to ball! Them pu**ies smile in yo’ face…then they pray for you to FALL!“). But cruising for six hours while listening to Coldplay and having a night’s rest in Winston-Salem, North Carolina wasn’t bad. We managed to find an Indian diner that was open till 11 p.m., right near our lil’ suite at the Hilton.

Finally…Carolina Beach! The kids played in the sand and deactivated their Negro genes so they could bear jumping around in 60 degree water. They also yelled “SHARK!” as a pod of dolphins swam near the shore. On another note, they’re getting ripped. That’s my 10-year-old, Nile, doing a handstand flip thingy. He skrong.

When not on the beach, we stayed in our beachfront hotel room. We’re not ballers. Amber works as a literacy coach and I’m comfortably and eternally in middle management at a healthcare company. But Marriott had a crazy deal on rooms. Suites with beach view balconies were going for around $150, which is about the price to buy oneself a gram of cocaine from the shady-looking beach bum posted outside of Hardee’s.

We also ventured out to the aquarium. It’s tiny. Save your money or try to sneak in. I mean, it was OK. And there’s a playground out back where kids can run around while parents play with smartphones. But if you’ve been to a major aquarium, Fort Fisher will feel underwhelming.

We drove straight home after four days in Carolina Beach. Full of memories, Zaxby’s fried chicken, and what turned out to be a family case of covid. Thanks to a combined 12 shots of Moderna and Pfizer’s finest brews, along with good health and no preexisting conditions besides ashyness, covid only gave us mild symptoms and an extra week off school. We look forward to returning to Carolina Beach with super immunity.

-Dewan Gibson

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I felt fine after the first injection of freedom. My only worry was that a return to normalcy would mean a return to shaking hands. I’m not grossed out by shaking hands. It’s just that I never know what handshake to give. In my repertoire, there’s the Black man grip and half hug combo, the So Cal slap hands and bump fists, the corporate standard with strong eye contact and forced smile, the secret society, the full on bear hug, and the Cleveland grip and snap your fingers, among others. Like, if I see another Black man at work, does he get the corporate standard or the grip and half hug? The pandemic made these decisions really easy. 

My second Moderna shot did not go as well as the first. Flu-like symptoms struck within hours. I was sure to communicate this to friends who were apprehensive about getting vaccinated. “Got my second shot. Whole body aching. Dick still strong.” Thanks to Nyquil and a glass of wine, I was fine the following morning.

Anyhow, with our risk of covid hospitalization and death now minuscule, Amber (who was Pfizer’d shortly after my vaccination) and I traveled to the belly of the covid super-spreader beast: Miami, Florida. We stayed in Miami Beach, whose main strip was put under an 8 p.m. spring break curfew. Still, the boardwalk was packed. Nearly-naked women of various heft, very few masks, semi-professional twerk teams exhibiting their skills, more weed air than fresh air, and emotionally stunted men angry after having their propositions rejected. None of which is pictured below. I’m not tryin’ to take a pic of the wrong person and get my ass shot on vacation. 

After two nights in Miami, we returned to Ohio to get the kids and take them to Tampa for their spring break. It was a little over $100 total for the five of us to fly from Columbus to Tampa. But here’s the thing: Spirit Airlines wanted to charge around $1,500 to fly us back. I definitely wasn’t paying that much for a work trip, which is really what it is when taking complaining chirren out of town. 

So I found that Spirit could at least get us from Tampa to Atlanta for the same $100. The final itinerary? Fly from Columbus to Tampa, stay three nights, fly from Tampa to Atlanta, get a one-way car rental and immediately make the three-hour drive from Atlanta to Knoxville, Tennessee, stay one night in Knoxville, drive five hours to home, and save more than $1,000.  But guess what? After all that effort to get to the beach, they had more fun in the hotel pool. The same hotel pool (Hyatt House) that we have in Ohio.

Life feels mostly normal now that our cells have been taught to create a coronavirus-fighting protein. (Shout-out to MRNA.) We can still catch the virus, but our likelihood of being hospitalized is along the lines of my Cleveland Cavaliers winning the NBA championship this year, and they’re not even making the playoffs!

As for kids, we now have months of data to gauge their ability to fight covid without serious illness. So far, so good. And with most older adults vaccinated, they’re unlikely to put someone else in the hospital. I look forward to sending them back to school to be raised by the underpaid teachers of my local school district.

We know the vaccines are working. U.S. covid deaths have gone from a high of 4,000 a day to around 750. Still, the virus ain’t going anywhere. There’s vaccine inequity in the developing word and vaccine ignorance in rich countries. The latter will continue until those hesitant are like, “Uhhh…the people dying are almost all unvaccinated. Maybe I should do something?”

And you should! I mean…can you imagine flying down to Miami on Spirit Air just to get covid?

-Dewan Gibson

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It’s funny to see each kids threshold for extreme sports danger. My 6-year-old took on the big hills and enjoyed playing dead after a spill. My middle boy (the wild child!) surprisingly preferred to coast slowly and yell “Are you OK!” when his brothers went. My 9-year-old, who claimed he was “born ready,” may actually have been right.

Amber was a beast on the hills. She attributed it to physics and being what 2 Chainz would call “quarantine thick.” But she’s also naturally athletic. I have pictures of her dunking on the kids.

As for me, I was more cameraman than participant. Last year, I tried to be cool and sled down the hill while standing and wearing what friends call my “church shoes” (see below). Despite the smile and protective fro, it didn’t end well. I flew off the sled and bruised my tailbone. To alleviate the pain, which lasted two months, I had to stand and poke out my ass like “models” do on Instagram when seeking OnlyFans subscribers. Lesson learned.

-Dewan Gibson

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We stayed at the Graduate Ann Arbor. It’s part of a chain of college-themed boutique hotels. “Boutique” being a euphemism for lil’ ass rooms (though well-designed). This is the view from the 13th floor, the second highest in the hotel. I thought the clerk hooked us up with a view because of our politeness, but maybe did it because there were only a handful of people staying. Whatever…$100 a night was a good deal. The lobby was cool, too. In normal times you’d probably spot a guy writing “the great American novel” on a typewriter while wearing a silk scarf. Don’t be that person.

UM’s one of my top five most beautiful campuses in the U.S., along with the University of California Santa Barbara, Indiana University, Ohio University, and the University of San Diego. As someone who’s loitered on many college campuses and continues to do so, I’m confident in my picks.

If you look closely through the trees in the picture below, you might see bros playing beer pong. Or you might not because I need to upgrade my camera. Three days before we arrived, students were issued an emergency stay-at-home order due to coronavirus. Classes went virtual and students were only permitted to leave to eat, complete work that could not be done online, vote, and worship. Though football players could continue to do whatever the hell they want. So why’d we even visit? Well, we didn’t know about the stay-at-home order (just ig’nant!) and our only plans were to walk around in nature and share each other’s air.

Their campus squirrels are fat and run up on you for snacks. They’re fed and drugged by students.

We spotted this bumpy tree during a hike through Nichols Arboretum. My wife, who was raised in the woods, identified it, but I can’t remember its name. It reminded me of that episode of Martin where he gets his face lumped by Thomas Hearns.

After four miles of leaf peeping and campus wandering, we picked up some edibles. Shout-out to the essential workers at Exclusive Ann Arbor. Simple process: You order via app, show ID and text message confirmation to security in the parking lot, and then pay cash curbside for the goods. It’s Chick-Fil-A level customer service, except I don’t have to betray my LGBT friends when buying. Quality product, too. It provided a tingly out-of-body experience and eight hours of deep sleep.

A rarity in the Midwest. Ann Arbor has a Black Lives Matter flag flying at its courthouse.

We drove the scenic route across Huron River Drive and stopped at one of the parks. That’s me wearing my fall 2020 outfit. It’s also likely to be my fall 2021 and fall 2022 outfit.

The scenic route ends in Dexter, Michigan. There’s a taqueria there called Chela’s. They were only serving brunch at that hour, but they agreed to make tacos just for us. We asked for all the meats. An hour later my stomach said, “You doing tew much.” We had to make a semi-emergency stop at an off-highway gas station, but man, those tacos were good.

-Dewan Gibson

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Halfway through the three-hour drive from Central Ohio, we stopped at Wendy’s in Wheeling, West Virginia. The drive-thru was wrapped around the parking lot, so I placed an in-store pickup order via Wendy’s app. I have it on my phone because their spicy chicken sandwich with heavy pickles and onions is the tastiest way to progress towards heart disease. I walked in wearing a mask, and the staff, who were not covered, looked at me like I was crazy, as did the other two customers.

Here’s the thing: People who choose not to wear masks during a pandemic also don’t return shopping carts to the bay. Selfish, terrible humans. I wouldn’t be surprised if they eat children. But they’ll come around. Anecdotally, there’s been an increase in face covering since we surpassed 100,000 Americans dead. Maybe they’ll wake up and slightly inconvenience themselves when that figure doubles by December?

After fighting off ‘rona in Wendy’s, we went to Pittsburgh Botanic Garden, not to be confused with the larger Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens.  It’s outdoors and naturally promotes social distancing because it’d be odd to breathe on the back of someone’s neck in such an open space. Amber loved it. She’s really into plants and trees and running up the water bill to take care of ’em. I found the gardens…relaxing.

From the gardens, we went to downtown Pittsburgh. It was bustling and buckwild during our previous visit in 2017, but now it was deserted. The people who were there appeared to those who had no choice but to be outside.

We checked into the Embassy Suites. The clerk (who may have been the only person working that Sunday afternoon) provided a set of instructions: masks are required in all public hotel areas, do not touch the elevator walls, free breakfast will be served in a to-go box, there is a seal on your door indicating that the room has been sanitized, please cover your finger with a tissue when calling the elevator…and no, we’re no longer hosting a free happy hour, or any happy hour for that matter.

And after all that, our room was still a lil’ dusty. But the view was nice.

After check-in, we biked through the Strip District. It’s a dense area of warehouses that have been converted into restaurants and bars. Most were closed, whether temporarily and permanently. But the street art remained. Only two restaurants had patios. We settled on a Caribbean joint called Kaya, where we ate tuna ceviche and tropical seafood paella. Sharing an entree is so financially romantic.

We spent the rest of the evening wandering through Pittsburgh’s hippest neighborhoods, at least according to what Instagram and Google told me. Lawrenceville, Bloomfield, and Carson. We hoped to find a bar that met our pandemic requirements: large patio, not too crowded, and tables properly spaced. There wasn’t a good fit, so we walked and talked. As far as outdoor drinking, Pittsburgh ain’t San Diego.

The most memorable part of the evening was Amber getting catcalled by a guy whom TLC would refer to as a “scrub.” I was walking on the gentleman side of her when he yelled from an SUV at a red light. “Damn, you’re beautiful.” As far as catcalls go, that was admittedly pretty nice. Amber didn’t reply, so shit, I said, “Thank you!” He twisted his face and yelled, “I wasn’t talking to you.” True words, of course. But the tone…such disrespect.

The smart option would have been to walk away. I didn’t know who or how many people were in the SUV. But my ego-driven conscience said, “Nah, f**k that, homie!” (My internal voice speaks Blood.) So I said, “Well, the way you’re looking, I’ll just assume you were talking to me.” Not my best comeback, but a biting shot at his hyper-masculinity. He cursed “from the passenger side of his best friend’s ride” and drove off.

A bottle of wine in our hotel room, and some other activities, soon put us to sleep. You’d think it would have been good sleep, considering we were without intruding kids, and it was for Amber, but I kept going in and out of dreams about recycled air. What if the housekeeper had Covid-19 and sneezed in the dusty room? The droplets could have remained live for hours, the virus just waiting to find a home in my vast African nostrils. Highly unlikely? Yes. But I felt trapped on the 23rd floor of a hotel with no open windows.

I thought of the 20 percent of people who test positive for Covid-19 and end up hospitalized. Many are maimed for life–scarred lungs, blood clots, a permanent mental fog, limbs amputated, kidney failure–by a virus we don’t fully understand, and may not for quite some time. I tossed and turned for a couple more hours before giving in and leaving the room for an early morning run. Gotta keep the lungs strong.

Amber woke up a couple of hours before checkout. We drove to Just Good Donuts in the South Side Flats neighborhood to satisfy a craving. Only one person was allowed in the shop at a time and donuts were not on display. You had to pick from four types and get out. Understandable. Luckily, Primanti Bros was around the corner. A corned beef and fries sandwich made the trip whole.

After lunch, we were ready to get home. A home we have set up as a sort of pandemic paradise. I’m a travel fiend, and never thought I’d say this, but right now there’s little appeal in traveling. Think about it this way: We’re in a public health crisis that science can solve, yet we’re being led by individuals who don’t believe in science if it conflicts with their economic goals.

I don’t know…Puck, Nene Leakers, Flavor Flav…I just feel like we’d be in a better position with this pandemic had we picked a more accomplished reality star for president.

Stay masked, y’all.

-Dewan Gibson

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Next, we drove over to Jimmy B’s Beach Bar at St. Pete Beach. They were hosting an ’80s party complete with a live band, mullets, Hammer pants, and a chest-naked, long-legged drunk doing cartwheels. (Check out the mullet in the background of the picture below.) We ordered some beers and a platter of nachos. Mid-drink we headed out back. “Out back” at Jimmy B’s is actually the beach. Amber wanted to see the sunset. At first I was being smart and said, “Well, it sets every day,” but after seeing it I thought, “Man, this is kinda nice.” Amber be knowin’. 

From there we wandered over to The Postcard Inn Beach Bar.  I don’t know what the occasion was, and it was only around 7 p.m., but there was some sort of donk festival going on. Not just thongs but twerking in thongs. I didn’t know what to say; cheeks were everywhere…I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t see. So I asked Amber, “You see her over there in the thong? Gotta be butt implants!” and “Look at her! Twerking on that guy!” She laughed, and I caught her checking out some guy who wasn’t even flexing but had 12 abs. We were out of there after a beer. 

Our next stop was downtown for the St. Pete French Fry Festival. I had high hopes for this event, but it was just too crowded. I refuse to wait in line for food. After 10 to 15 minutes of standing around, I feel like I might as well run to Whole Foods and grab a ribeye that I can cook myself. We ended up having Spanish small plates at Ceviche Tapas Bar. 

After some age 40-and-up hotel rest that could have easily turned into a cancelled night out, we got our second wind and went bar hopping. I hadn’t danced in awhile. My two-step was a stiff like Ellen’s. Whiskey and beer loosened us and we got our grind on. (See the obligatory buzzed selfie below.) Unfortunately the DJ never played Ja Rule, whose music is responsible for most interracial relationships consummated in the early-to-mid 2000s. 

But what shocked us was that we never got carded in any of the bars we went to! Amber tried to show the doorman her ID, and he was like, “You’re cool, go ‘head.” And the same happened to me. I know we’re 40 and 39, but damn, tell me I look like a young Bruce Leroy or something. Man!

First thing in the morning we went to the Salvador Dalí Museum. Well, we didn’t go all the way in the museum. Time was short and I wasn’t paying $25 per person for admission, which is what it costs to go to a Ghostface Killah concert and have way more fun. But we did grab food from the cafe and relax in the museum garden. The building itself is a work of art. I peaked through one of the windows and stared at statues set in yoga poses. Except they were real people in class. Oops. 

From there we drove to the Central Arts District to check out the murals. I would have walked, but one of the compromises a married man makes, especially one who speed walks, is slowing his pace to account for his wife. I figured we might as well ride through. We were able to pull over and snap pictures of Marilyn Monroe and some more colorful pieces. St. Petersburg is right up there with Detroit, as far as murals per capita.

We ended our one-night trip to St. Petersburg with a lazy, slightly hungover stop in Madeira Beach. We ate last night’s leftovers, took a (slow-paced) stroll near the water, and tried some local beers at Mad Beach Craft Brewing. The area felt “tourist-trappy,” but the ’70s style hotels, which or may not have been renovated since then, looked like they’ve hosted many’a coke binges.

Our brief child-free vacation was over. We stuffed ourselves into our Spirit Airlines seats and took a two-hour flight home. Man, I’m gonna miss those greens.

-Dewan Gibson

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I’m not one of those guys who yells, “I go to any hood and get respect!” Well, I say things along those lines when alone in my car listening to gangsta shit. But I don’t run into trouble when traveling. Maybe it’s because I smile a lot and wear cardigans. This time was no different, though some guy did block my car in with his just as I was about to leave an old lot near the mural. I waved and said “How’s it going!” He nodded his head, moved his car, and that was that. I’m guessing he thought I was someone else. People say we Lightskins look alike. 

Here are some of the murals I saw while wandering around Nashville. The first picture is from the Frist Art Museum hallway. Also, to get an idea of the gentrification in “new” Nashville, check out the picture of two very different adjacent homes. I wonder if those neighbors know each other. 

After my art walk, I drove to 12 South. It was your typical hipster neighborhood: weak chins covered by face fros, craft beer, indie shops, white women wearing interesting glasses. I ate chicken soup and tacos at Bartaco. Really nice staff at that restaurant. Maybe they were exercising covert dine-and-dash prevention, but four different workers asked if I needed anything. It felt like the last waitress was going to address me as “My Lord.” Pretty heavy for a taco shop, but I’ll take it. 

A rain and sleet prevented me from further exploring 12 South, so I bought a last minute ticket to the Vanderbilt basketball game. A great seat was only $6 via StubHub. 

Funny enough, Scottie Pippen was there. Yep, the Scottie Pippen who dunked on Patrick Ewing and told Spike Lee to sit his ass down. His son plays for Vanderbilt. Junior’s smaller than dad, in both nose and height, but he’s a good player as a freshman. The boy has court vision and a veteran calm to his game. 

Unfortunately the student body didn’t seem to care for the game. I expected thousands of yoga pants-wearing coeds to be there, but it was mostly just a few hundred older folks. I’m talking people old enough to remember Vanderbilt’s first women’s basketball team, whose picture I saw in the arena. 

After the game, I finally checked into my hotel. I stayed in the hip Hilton Suites in downtown Nashville. It’s very Ikea but with a co-working space on the main floor. I had a power nap that almost turned into a full night’s sleep, but I forced myself up and out since I was only in town for a night. 

I walked down to Broadway, Nashville’s main strip for nightlife. It was a Monday–Veteran’s Day–but most of the bars were crowded. I was recovering from a bad cold and three-day NyQuil binge and didn’t want to drink. I told myself just one beer and back to the hotel. Of course I had two whiskeys and a beer within 20 minutes of being at some bar featuring an R&B cover band. The alcohol hit me hard and led to me to produce this award-winning Instagram video about a rare snowfall in Nashville. 

I woke up at 6:30 a.m. the next morning for a walk downtown. I had read the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge was a must-see. I wouldn’t say all that, but it allows for a good view of the Cumberland River and the stadium where a mediocre NFL team plays its home games. If you happen to be on the bridge when it’s icy, as I was, you may be lucky enough to see a guy bust his ass…TWICE…while riding a scooter. 

My 24-hour stay in Nashville ended later that morning with a visit to a plantation. Let me explain: I visited my first plantation in Charleston, South Carolina and found the tour, led by the wokest white man this side of Max Kellerman, compelling. But Nashville’s Meade Plantation seemed different. There’s a winery onsite and you can do a tasting tour of the premises. I found that too casual, maybe even a bit festive for such a somber place. Like, they’re really up there harvesting grapes from grounds where the enslaved are buried? 

I decided not to take the tour but did talk with one of the staff members. She made me feel a bit better about visiting the place. Some of that has to do with her softening me up by saying I reminded her of her grandson, who she hoped would grow up to look like me. That’s probably the most unique compliment I’ve had since a friend called me Skinny Kravitz.

I drove on the plantation grounds until signs told me to turn around. The home pictured below is where Bob Green resided. He was enslaved but grew up to be a “world-renowned” horse trainer. The training and breeding of the horses, in addition to free human labor, made mad profits for the plantation’s owners. Some of the funds were used to buy more people. Their descendants would continue to live in the slave quarters until the 1970s. Yep, the 1970s.

-Dewan Gibson

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Pasadena is largely a residential area lined with homes that may have been intended for the middle class but are now worth millions. I figured I could drop my wife, Amber, off at the hotel, park on the street, and walk a couple blocks back to avoid paying the Hilton an extra $23. That’s romance.  

But there’s a city law against overnight street parking. Wealthy homeowners don’t want unidentified driving objects ruining their views of suburbia. So the trick, which took me 20 minutes circling around the city to find out, was to park near an apartment building, which are not subject to the law. I parked in front of that sum-a-bitch all night. 

By the time we got settled in the hotel, it was already 11 p.m., or 2 a.m. in flyover country. We grabbed some tacos from a food truck and beer from the grocery store. Hello Pasadena. Goodbye Pasadena. 

We took the inland route to Paso Robles. It was a lazy drive, a bunch of agriculture and Amber asking “I wonder what grows on that?” I don’t know…food! 

We stopped in Bakersfield at a taco truck parked at a gas station. No matter the cost of living increases in California, the price of tacos mostly stays the same. Usually around $2 each. The more authentic, the cheaper. But this taco truck was somehow out of tacos. So we had subpar Clamato-soaked ceviche.  

After more than three hours on the road, we arrived in Paso Robles and went straight to Croad Vineyards. We had the whole place to ourselves. Man, it was extravagant. Amber thought I chose this winery for its romantic views. That’s partly true. But they also had half off wine from 2pm to 3pm. I made sure we were at the counter at exactly 1:59:59. 

Next up was Sculpterra. It’s a winery with a sculpture garden, staffed by a host who’s a bit cold until she finds out you’re also from Ohio, at which point she gives you a discount. We shared a bottle with friends, which I actually have in California, and then left to check into our Airbnb. 

I couldn’t get the apartment’s screen door latch to open and had a panicked overreaction akin to that time I yelled “I’m drowning! I’m drowning!” in ninth grade swim class. I thought I was in the deep end, but I was actually in only five feet of water and could have just stood up. This was part of the reason why I remained a virgin until college. 

Anyhow, I called Airbnb support, like, “Is this a scam or something! I can’t get the gate open to put the code in!” They assured me it was not. The apartment owner messaged me, “You have to move the door handle to the side to open the latch.” Oops.

We invited old and new friends over steak, margaritas, and wine. I started cooking, but my friend took over the kitchen. He wanted to impress a young tenderoni whom he brought to wine country for the weekend. Go ‘head, hoss. Do your thing. He saved me the struggle and the food turned out damn good. 

The crew left to get ready to bar hop. Amber got dressed and made up. I had planned to get clean, too, but I’m 40 and when that sleep hits, it hits. Next thing you know, it was morning and I woke up in my jeans. Amber had a bit more trouble waking up than I did, but nothing that a cold rag and Excedrin Extra Strength couldn’t take care of.

We spent the following morning at Avila Beach in nearby San Luis Obispo. There was ass tanning and white cliffs and Miami Vice-esque homes, a lonely crab, and exactly one Negro in the entire area. Me. Matter of fact, there was only one brown person, too. The pizza maker. It’s easy to forget how monocultural California can be in certain pricey areas. 

After a power nap, we headed out for our reason for visiting Paso Robles in the first place: my friends’ wedding. It was outdoors, as all weddings in California should be. They did it up with with decorations hanging in trees and lil’ drummers representing the groom’s Ghanaian heritage. And the porta potties? Man! Luxurious. I felt like I was a celebrity on set with my own private facilities. Matter of fact, outside of the men’s room in Bloomingdales at San Diego’s Fashion Valley Mall, the wedding portas were easily the best public bathroom I’ve used.

As for the ceremony itself? Elegant, stunning, touching. I cried, but only on the inside of course. Being raised in such a hyper-masculine environment has stunted by ability to express deep emotions, at least outside of writing.

We woke up the next morning with eight hours to kill before our flight home. We stopped at Pismo Beach on our drive back to LAX. Amber ran into an old friend and colleague who is now working in Monterey. She mentioned a job opening in Amber’s field.

I’ve never been to Monterey, and only know the city from HBO’s Big Little Lies. Apparently it has great ocean views, along with infidelity and suspicious deaths among the one percent. Sounds a bit more intriguing than Pickerington, Ohio. We joked about trying Monterey out for two years. Then we filled up our Bug convertible with gas at almost five dollars a gallon. Ohio ain’t so bad. 

-Dewan Gibson

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Believe it or not, I found good seafood in Evansville. It was at a “fast casual” place called Tin Fish. I thought it was a local spot, but it’s actually part of a small chain with locations in California, Florida, and of course…Evansville (Newburgh), Indiana? I have no idea why, but it works. 

I walked into the restaurant and felt the stares of workers and patrons who weren’t too used to my kind. By “my kind” I mean lanky black guys who scurry to the counter like they’re about to hit a lick but really just want a fish taco before the place closes. I ordered oysters and two tacos: shrimp and scallop. I almost returned the tacos because I’m anti-cheese, but the smell was mild and didn’t overpower the taste of the seafood. The shrimp were tiny, probably newborns, but the scallop taco made the meal. I’ll be back, but hopefully when I’m in California. 

After the meal, I took a walking tour of the gentrification in the Haynie’s Corner neighborhood. There were round women dressed like wizards or fairies or something. I don’t know. I guess the theater had just let out. There were shops that I wish were open, and a rainbow bench that stood out.

I went downtown and walked down the very appropriately titled Main Street. There were restaurants, a co-working space, a hookah spot, and a retro-looking Greyhound station just around the corner. The ‘Hound was closed for the night so I couldn’t go inside. But I was fortunate enough to see a woman sitting on the curb, yelling, “Hey! We been married to him, bitch!” 

She wasn’t talking to me, or anyone actually, and I have nothing against polygamy, but I’ve seen enough horror films to know that I should avoid eye contact and get away.

I walked over to a restaurant called Comfort by the Cross-Eyed Cricket for a beer. A white man, probably around 50, possibly a bodybuilder, or maybe just a really kind steroid user, offered me some of his cheese balls: “My man! Want some cheese balls?”

I laughed because I thought it was some sort of hyper-masculine joke among locals. But nah, he was really offering me cheese balls. As I mentioned, cheese ain’t my thing, but I didn’t want to be rude. I took a bite and thought to myself, “Nasty! Man, that’s what I get…” 

I struck a conversation with the restaurant manager. He was old school, dressed impeccably in black slacks and a light purple dress shirt that you’d never find at Marshall’s or T.J. Maxx. You could tell he cared about the restaurant. We talked kids and how Evansville is a great place to raise a family. He said we should visit during the annual Fall Festival. He also suggested that I go to the casino. The bartender chimed in, “Check out Franklin Street, too. We’re going to a place called Lamascos later.”

The Tropicana Casino was THE spot for Evansville’s octogenarians. I should have known by the number of cars parked crooked in the lot. It’s not a huge casino, and fairly understated, but it’s something to do on a late Tuesday evening in Evansville, Indiana.

I wanted to have a drink, maybe get some life advice from a senior at the bar, but the smoke was killing my eyes. I got out of there when I felt tears coming on like Michael Jackson did at the end of the “She’s Out of My Life” video. 

My next stop was Franklin Street. It looked as if it’d be a happening place on the weekend. There were lots of bars and even a gun shop in case s**t got real. I drove up and down the street a few times, looking for a place that felt welcoming and energetic. Unfortunately a train came through and sapped the enthusiasm I had to actually get out the car. I was stuck at the crossing for at least 20 minutes. An Impossible Whopper and a seltzer water in bed started to seem more inviting than a bar. 

I went on a food hunt and then back to the hotel. Evansville, Indiana isn’t so bad, or even so boring, at least from what I saw during my limited stay. But I probably won’t be back for the Fall Festival. 

-Dewan Gibson

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