The Here and Now Traveler

I’m in the process of finalizing a divorce, and lately my mind has been consumed with it.

There are documents to review, decisions to make, conversations with attorneys, and a lot of uncertainty about what comes next. Add work and all the other responsibilities of everyday life, and it can feel like there is very little space to simply breathe.

Then, at the last minute, I decided to go to Hilton Head.

My parents have been staying at the same timeshare at Waterside Resort for the past 26 years. They were going again this year, and on Saturday, August 22, I called them and asked if I could join them. By 7 p.m. Central Time, I was on my way.

My parents generously offered to let me stay with them and even used their American Airlines points to get me a ticket. My flight arrived in Savannah close to 11 p.m., and my mom insisted on picking me up.

I travel light. Everything I needed for the trip fit into a carry-on backpack.

My original plan was simple: spend two full days with my parents and fly home Tuesday.

I wasn’t looking for an adventure. I wasn’t trying to check things off a list. I just wanted to spend time with my parents and disconnect for a little while from the priorities of work and the constant mental noise surrounding my divorce.

But by Sunday afternoon, something had changed.

I decided to stay for the rest of the week.

And I decided I was going to walk.

A lot.

Slowing Down

One of the first things I discovered was that Hilton Head feels completely different early in the morning.

I started getting up before sunrise and walking toward the beach.

There is something about walking when the day hasn’t quite started yet. The roads are quieter. The island is still waking up. There is nowhere I need to be.

And then the sun begins to come up.

I found myself stopping to watch it.

Not because it was something I had put on an itinerary. Not because I was trying to get the perfect picture.

I was just there.

Be Here.

I took some pictures, including one of myself standing on the beach with the sun coming up behind me. But the picture doesn’t really capture what I remember.

What I remember is standing there.

Listening to the waves.

Feeling the morning air.

Watching the sky change.

For once, I wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do next.

I was thinking about what was happening right then.

And that became one of the themes of the entire trip.

Walk. Sunrise. Breakfast with Mom.

When I returned from my morning walks, one of my favorite parts of the morning was waiting for me.

My mom would cook breakfast.

It became a little ritual.

Nothing extraordinary. But somehow, everything about it felt extraordinary because I was actually present for it.

My dad had his own contribution to the morning routine.

He would ride his bike to CVS to make sure we had the perfect amount of Celsius to last the week.

And my dad was meticulous about his CVS strategy. He maximized every coupon. He knew when to go. He knew what deals were available. And he seemed to have a carefully calculated plan for every CVS visit.

Most days, he would come back with two cold Celsius drinks.

It was such a small thing, but I loved it. There was something comforting about knowing that Dad had it covered.

We had our morning walks. Mom had breakfast waiting. Dad had made sure the Celsius supply was properly managed.

Looking back, those simple routines may be what I remember most.

Not the big attractions. Not some elaborate itinerary.

Breakfast with my mom. A cold Celsius from my dad. A sunrise. A long walk.

The ordinary moments that, when you slow down enough to notice them, don’t feel ordinary at all.

Noticing the Little Things

Once I slowed down, I started noticing things I probably would have overlooked if I had been moving through the trip the way I normally move through life.

Simple things. Memorable things.

At a park on Pope Avenue, I watched an automatic lawnmower quietly making its way around the grass. It was such a small thing, but I stopped to watch it.

At Waterside, I noticed the newly finished pickleball courts.

Near CVS, I discovered a park.

And everywhere I walked, I noticed restaurants tucked behind palm trees and layers of landscaping. Places I might have driven past without ever realizing they were there.

None of these things would make a traditional list of Hilton Head’s must-see attractions.

But I remembered them.

That’s what slowing down does.

It gives you a chance to notice the ordinary.

And sometimes the ordinary becomes memorable.

Savannah and Charleston

We went into Savannah and walked through downtown.

There was something about not being in a car, not worrying about traffic or parking, and simply moving through the city at a slower pace.

You notice more.

The architecture. The people. The trees. The little shops and restaurants. The conversations happening around you.

You’re not just getting somewhere.

You’re experiencing where you are.

We also spent a day in Charleston. We saw the Pineapple Fountain and walked along the dock.

Again, I wasn’t trying to see everything. I was simply taking it in.

Walking. Looking around. Enjoying being somewhere different.

Charleston could easily have become another rushed day of trying to check off the highlights.

Instead, it became another opportunity to slow down.

Missing My Daughter

There was one thing missing from the trip.

My daughter.

There were moments when I wished she were there with me. She’s the kind of person I would normally want to share these little discoveries with.

The automatic lawnmower. The pickleball courts. The hidden restaurants. The sunrise. The walks.

These are the kinds of things I would have loved to experience with her.

That made being away from her difficult.

But there was also something I had to acknowledge.

Being alone gave me an opportunity to be present in a way that I don’t always allow myself to be.

There was no schedule to coordinate. No one waiting for me to decide what we were doing next. No need to hurry.

I could simply walk. Look. Listen. Think. Or not think at all.

I could be completely present with whatever was happening around me.

And I realized that being present doesn’t mean that you don’t miss the people you love.

It means you can miss them and still fully experience the moment you’re in.

The Walk Home

The walking continued the next evening.

My parents were visiting with some friends, and after we had an incredible Thai dinner, I decided to walk back to the resort.

The restaurant was about 2 miles from home.

It wasn’t something I had planned. I simply thought:

Why not walk?

So I did.

Two-point-two miles gave me enough time to think, but not so much time that I got lost in my thoughts. There was something strangely peaceful about it.

The next day, my dad and I decided to do the same thing.

We had an incredible lunch at a New York-style deli, where I had a great bowl of matzoh ball soup. When it was time to leave, we decided to walk back.

This time, it was 2.5 miles.

At first, it was a beautiful, sunny walk.

Then the weather changed.

The sunshine disappeared. The clouds rolled in. And suddenly our leisurely afternoon walk turned into a downpour.

We got drenched.

Completely drenched.

Instead of being frustrated, we eventually started laughing about it.

My dad and I ended up stopping for hot chocolate and chai tea, trying to warm ourselves up after getting soaked.

And somehow, that became one of my favorite moments of the trip.

Not because it was comfortable. It wasn’t.

Not because it was planned. It definitely wasn’t.

But because I was completely in the moment.

What Walking Taught Me

Something else happened during those walks that I didn’t expect.

The walking helped cement these moments into my memory.

When you’re driving somewhere, it’s easy to remember the destination but forget everything in between.

Walking is different.

You have time.

Time to notice. Time to think. Time to talk. Time to take in the surroundings.

And because you’re moving more slowly, the experience seems to settle into your memory.

I think that’s why I can still picture the sunrise. I can remember coming back to breakfast with my mom. I can picture my dad riding his bike back from CVS with our carefully calculated supply of Celsius.

I remember walking through Savannah. I remember the dock in Charleston.

I remember the automatic lawnmower. The pickleball courts. The CrossFit gym. The restaurants hidden behind the palm trees.

I remember the Thai restaurant and the 2.2-mile walk home.

And I can definitely remember walking with my dad in the rain, completely soaked, laughing about it and eventually sitting down with a hot chocolate and chai tea.

The walking didn’t just help me experience those moments.

It helped me keep them.

Being Here

I’ve spent a lot of time over the years thinking about what comes next.

What do I need to do? What’s the next decision? What’s going to happen? What needs to be fixed?

Especially during a divorce, it’s easy to live in the past or constantly worry about the future.

I’ve also learned a lot from Eckhart Tolle about the importance of being present rather than allowing your mind to constantly pull you somewhere else.

This trip helped me understand that idea in a much more practical way.

I didn’t need to sit quietly in a meditation room to practice being present.

I could practice it while walking on the beach. Watching the sunrise. Walking through Savannah. Exploring Charleston. Having breakfast with my mom. Watching my dad ride his bike to CVS. Getting caught in the rain. Sitting with a hot chocolate and chai tea.

Noticing an automatic lawnmower. Stopping to look at a new pickleball court. Discovering a CrossFit gym. Seeing restaurants tucked behind palm trees.

These moments didn’t change my circumstances.

My divorce was still waiting for me. Work was still waiting for me. The decisions hadn’t disappeared. And I still missed my daughter.

But for a few days, I wasn’t carrying all of those things around with me.

I was just there.

And maybe that’s one of the gifts of travel.

We often think travel is about going somewhere else.

Maybe sometimes it’s about finally being where you are.

What I Want The Here and Now Traveler to Be About

That’s what I want The Here and Now Traveler to be about.

Not traveling farther.

Not seeing more.

Not rushing from one attraction to the next.

But slowing down enough to actually experience where you are.

Walking. Watching a sunrise. Sharing breakfast with your mom. Getting a cold Celsius from your dad. Walking through a new city. Sharing a meal. Getting caught in the rain with your dad.

Missing someone you love. Noticing the little things. Putting the phone away. And being present for the life that’s happening right in front of you.

Because sometimes slowing down doesn’t mean doing less.

Sometimes it means remembering more.

And sometimes the best travel experiences aren’t the ones you planned.

Sometimes they’re the ones you almost didn’t take.