You’ve likely heard the saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

And it’s true: a single photo can communicate a very complex idea almost instantaneously.

Think “Tank Man,” the iconic photo of a Chinese man facing down the Chinese Army during the Tiananmen Square protests, or “Earthrise,” the photo of Earth taken from Apollo 8.

But in our digital age, people are taking more photos than ever: some two trillion last year. That’s more than five billion each day.

That means humanity now takes more photographs before breakfast every day than it did during the entire 19th century — a time that included the invention of photography, the Industrial Revolution, and several wars.

If one picture is worth a thousand words, how much are a trillion photos worth?

Then again, with so many photos being taken, is each one still worth even that much — or anything at all?

Is that what’s happened? Are photos now basically worthless?

Of the five billion photos taken today, I’m sure many will be good and some even remarkable.

But does that matter if no one sees them? Even if it’s posted on social media, the algorithm-gods may bury it beneath seventeen photos of someone’s lunch of pasta primavera and a golden retriever named Kevin who can smile.

If a gorgeous photo is taken in a forest but no one sees it, is it really a photo of a gorgeous forest?

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These questions matter to me. A lot.

Photography is something I am passionate about, and I have over 100,000 photos stored in Adobe Lightroom to prove it.

Which means I am personally responsible for a measurable percentage of humanity’s visual noise.

I want to believe that some of my photos are among the good or even great ones. But if no one ever sees them, how can I know?

So are there too many photos?

Thanks to smartphones and their ease of use for photography, hundreds of millions of people can now express themselves visually — people who couldn’t do that before. Even people without access to expensive camera equipment can now take great-looking pictures.

Stories that weren’t being told now are. That’s a good thing.

The scarcity is now not in the images — it’s in the time we have to give each one.

But my photos still matter, at least to me.

Before taking up photography, I rarely sought out a starry night sky. I rarely chased sunrises. I didn’t wander much. I didn’t notice evening light the way I do now.

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I take photos to preserve memories of what I’ve seen and done, so when I’m an old man — assuming I can still remember the password to my cloud storage — I’ll be able to look back and remember the morning I wandered the ancient streets of Istanbul, then took a ferry across the Golden Horn to visit Galata Tower.

Or how amazing it was to fly over Lake Como in a small plane, the villas glowing in the afternoon light.

I take photos because they motivate me to go out and explore the world almost every day, and to look more closely at what I see. I am now far more aware of the details around me than I ever was before — not just when I’m taking pictures, but always.

I didn’t use to know much about clouds. Now I know a “mackerel sky” is rows of cirrocumulus lined up like fish scales. “Mare’s tails” are cirrus uncinus that resemble, yes, horses’ tails.

I’m now the kind of person who ruins road trips by yelling “ASPERITAS!” and making the driver pull over so I can take pictures of those very rare clouds.

Without photography, I also wouldn’t have gotten out of bed early enough to chase sunrises in Colorado, Cambodia, and Hungary — or to photograph the Charles Bridge on a frigid morning in November.

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But I take my photos for other people too.

I consider myself strictly an amateur, so I hope this doesn’t sound pretentious, but I want to say something about the world with my photos: show a little beauty or make people feel something.

I spend a lot of time taking and editing my pictures, in the hope that as people scroll through the torrent of images pouring out of their phones, they might pause for a moment at one I took.

Of course, I also take photos for this newsletter: to tell the stories of our lives, the places we visit, and the people we’ve met.

Like Colleen, the 92-year-old English woman I met on a bench in Australia.

It’s one thing to write about poverty in Hong Kong. It’s another thing to show a “cardboard granny” — an elderly woman bent under piles of cardboard, collecting scraps to supplement her meager income.

And it’s one thing to describe the incredible Las Fallas Festival in Valencia, Spain, where they build and then burn massive paper-mâché sculptures. It’s another thing to show a towering sculpture collapsing into fire on the festival’s night, La Cremà.

If I’m being completely honest, another reason I take photos is that I have an ego — and like most egos, mine requires regular feeding.

Social media is basically a very elaborate ego vending machine, and yes, I enjoy the occasional payout.

I’m not ashamed to admit it: when my photos are seen, I feel seen. Beneath the likes, comments, and shares, there’s connection. And connection still matters, even in a world drowning in images.

So what are two trillion photos worth?

Probably less than we think.

But maybe more than we realize.

And definitely more than whatever I photographed for lunch yesterday.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

“Live like a local!”

It’s one of travel writing’s most durable clichés, right up there with “Travel changes you!” and “Go off the beaten path!”

In Hong Kong, it usually means haggling at a night market, eating at restaurants too small to have English menus, or taking the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbour at dusk. The Instagram version that fits in a caption.

It doesn’t mean what the woman in the photo above is doing.

She is a “cardboard granny” — one of hundreds of elderly Hong Kongers who push carts through the city collecting discarded cardboard to sell for a few dollars, supplementing incomes so meager that this grueling labor is worth doing in the sweltering heat.

She is living like a local. Just not the local anyone means when they use that phrase.

My image of Hong Kong had been assembled from financial headlines about the city’s great wealth and shows like Expats — specifically about the lives of people who will never resemble the woman with the cardboard.

I expected Victoria Peak, that iconic skyline, and gleaming malls stocked with Gucci and Fendi. After all, Hong Kong has the second‑highest concentration of billionaires in the world, and billionaires need somewhere to put all that money besides real estate.

When Brent and I found a two‑bedroom Airbnb in Hong Kong last October at a price that felt reasonable — reasonable by the standards of Westerners able to travel the world full‑time — we were pleased.

The listing advertised “True local HK living,” which felt like a bonus.
After nine years of full‑time nomading, we don’t kid ourselves that we actually ever live like locals. But we do try to live in a way that gives us a deeper experience than visiting for a week.

Our apartment was in Yau Tong in Kowloon, across the harbor from the more upscale Hong Kong Island. It was on the seventh floor of a building without an elevator, which we’d known about before arriving. We also knew homes in Hong Kong were notoriously small and that we were lucky to have a two-bedroom place.

We hadn’t known the building featured stairwells that looked like New York City circa 1980, apartment doors fitted with metal security cages, and a top floor I took to calling the “murder room” because it looked that scary.

The bathroom was gritty, the toilet wobbly every time you used it. We cooked on a single propane burner in a kitchen so small and cramped that the top of the washer was our pantry.

Is this really what it means to live like a local? I wondered, hauling water up seven flights for the second time that week.

I would soon learn we actually had it much better than many locals.

In nine years of nomading, Brent and I have visited places that would have floored our more sheltered 2017 selves — Siem Reap, Cambodia; Tbilisi, Georgia; Khlong Toei in Bangkok. But we’d been prepared for those places; we understood the enormous gap that existed between our lives in the U.S. and the lives of locals in those places.

We were not prepared for that in Hong Kong.

What I found in Yau Tong threw me in a way that Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia hadn’t. I wanted to learn more.

In every place we live, I take long walks to see and photograph as much as I can. Those walks often take me far from the usual tourist destinations. They’re one of the ways I come to some kind of understanding of a place.

Two of my walks in Hong Kong took me to Sham Shui Po, one of the city’s poorest districts. I was drawn by the street markets — especially Apliu Street’s flea market, photogenic in that gritty urban way that street photographers love.

The neighborhood’s apartment blocks had originally been painted in bright pastels — yellows, greens, pinks — now badly faded and streaked with rust and black residue from decades of dirty rain.

The streets were packed with people going about their lives: men outside convenience stores, women hauling groceries up narrow stairs, battered‑looking storefronts filled with people trying to make a buck.

Then there were the elderly who, lacking any kind of retirement, were disproportionately affected by poverty. I often saw them standing in long lines, waiting for government assistance in the form of small cash amounts that helped but not nearly enough.

One afternoon, I took the metro to the Yick Cheong Building complex — widely known as the Monster Building. Five interconnected 17‑story towers housing between 7,000 and 10,000 people, each apartment roughly 350 to 450 square feet, typically home to a family of three or four.

I thought the photos I’d seen ahead of time had prepared me. They hadn’t. Standing at the base, craning up at tier after tier of drying laundry and air conditioning units and window grilles stacked on top of each other, I felt like a termite at the base of its colony’s nest.

Standing there, I kept thinking about something I'd read: in Hong Kong, the wealthiest 10% earn 81.9 times as much per month as the poorest 10%. The absolute poverty rate is 20.2%.

For more than three million people in the eighth-richest city in the world, living like a local means genuinely struggling to keep a roof over their heads — and the system is designed that way. Hong Kong finances its government through land sales, which means keeping property values high is policy.

The poor aren't a failure of the system. They're a result of it.

And the numbers are only getting worse.

This is not an accident. Hong Kong has historically financed its government through land sales, creating a structural incentive to keep property values high, which keeps housing unaffordable, which keeps the poor poor.

It isn’t a bug, but a feature.

During my research, I came across SoCO — the Society for Community Organization — an NGO focused on Hong Kong’s housing crisis, including what are known as cage homes: subdivided apartments where residents sleep in actual metal cages, often with no windows, no ventilation, and shared toilets.

Cage homes are illegal. At least 200,000 Hong Kongers live in them anyway, because the alternative is the street. The actual number is almost certainly higher, and there are also tens of thousands more who squat on rooftops with no amenities at all.

SoCO offers tours of these parts of the city designed to raise awareness. They do not take visitors into homes where people actually live. Instead, they’ve furnished an apartment with cage beds to show people what the reality looks like.

Wanting to further educate myself, I signed up.

We met near a metro stop. Our guide was a young woman named April, who clearly wanted us to grasp the reality of life for the poor in Hong Kong. The topic wasn’t abstract for her. She’d grown up in a subdivided apartment — cramped, she said, but nothing like what we were about to see. Her family had waited decades to get a larger, government-subsidized apartment.

As we walked, she explained the structural forces behind the crisis: the land‑sale financing model, developers building luxury apartments for foreign investment, and restrictions on development. Then she said something I haven’t stopped thinking about.

“My generation feels trapped,” she told us, “and that there is no way out for us.”

With her income, buying even a small apartment would take decades of saving every single cent she earned. The government housing wait list is years long.

We arrived at the run-down building that housed the cage apartments. A dry cleaner stood guard next to the dark, narrow stairwell. The October afternoon was hot, and I imagined the heat from the laundromat snaking upward, making a bad situation for those above even worse.

The cage apartment was exactly what it sounds like: a room filled with four metal cages, each roughly the dimensions of a large dog kennel, in which a person sleeps and keeps their possessions locked up.

The twelve of us took turns squeezing into the small apartment — because it wasn’t large enough to accommodate us all at once.

The air was stale and stuffy. I had almost no headroom. The bathroom, shared by four people, stood right next to the kitchen and offered minimal privacy. A hot plate made cooking possible, which only made the space feel more suffocating.

April told us that in summer, the temperature regularly climbs into the nineties, and the humidity is miserable. Infectious diseases spread quickly. Rats, cockroaches, and bedbugs are common.

Residents of cage homes are significantly more likely to die by suicide — a rate that spiked during Covid lockdowns.

We stayed ten minutes. By the time we left, I was drenched in sweat and felt vaguely ill.

Actually live like a local here or in Sham Shui Po or in most of Hong Kong?

Ha.

I could barely handle our Airbnb for a month — our two‑bedroom with its wobbly toilet and cramped kitchen, which I complained about to Brent at least twice a week.

In Hong Kong, I photographed elderly women doing backbreaking work for pocket money and rundown buildings that even hardworking young people can’t afford to live in. Now I’m writing an essay about it for a newsletter people pay to read.

I’m not a neutral observer. That tour exists because organizations like SoCO need money and attention, and tourists and travel writers are one way to generate both.

I believe in that work. I also know that I got on a plane at the end of the month and went somewhere else, and the cardboard granny did not.

The “live like a local” fantasy sells access — the idea that travel can dissolve the distance between you and somewhere else.

Of course, that distance never really dissolves, not unless you stay for years, and probably not even then.

But maybe by paying attention — and by trying to act on that attention, whether through financial support or advocacy — you can understand it a little better.

I know I can’t live like a local, but at least I can try to live like someone who doesn’t look away.

Use this link to donate to SoCO. To sign up for a tour, use this link.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

Perhaps it was once a photographer’s paradise, but, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell, they paved it and put up a parking lot.

It’s usually rainy in the Pacific Northwest this time of year, but when I saw we had two sunny days in a row, I was determined to take advantage of the weather by snapping some sunrise photos at Bradley Park, which has a small but pretty lake.

The first morning, I woke up at 6:30, but when I saw nothing except gray outside, I figured I’d try again the following day. Instead, I would just go to the gym, which opened at eight.

I left at 7:45, and the drive went right past the park. So when I glanced over and saw the sun breaking through the clouds and a lovely mist burning off the lake, I immediately did a U-turn.

I might not have taken the walk when I first got up, but I was sure as hell going to take it now.

However, it was early March and freezing outside.

Because I had earlier decided not to do the walk, I hadn’t brought a jacket and wore nothing but a sweatshirt and gym shorts.

My plan was to take a few quick pictures of the lake. But once I saw how pretty it was — and that the light would be better from the other side — my strategy changed.

That’s because I’m a pig-headed idiot who believes I sometimes have to suffer for my “art.”

I set out to circle the lake even though I wasn’t at all dressed for it. I soon passed a few other people who, of course, were dressed far more sensibly.

I spent the next forty-five minutes walking the loop, and it was absolutely worth it — even if my hands and feet went numb from the cold.

There was the light streaming through the trees...

The lake shrouded in mist...

The adorable squirrel...

The trees reflected in the mirror-like water...

A father and son fishing together.

By the time I finished, I could barely feel my feet and hands — and I’d scraped my legs scrambling through some blackberry bushes to get a particular shot.

Hey, no one ever accused me of being a genius!

Perhaps none of these photos is worth a thousand words. But that was a happily spent forty-five minutes, and honestly, that alone might be reason enough to pick up a camera.

So what’s the secret to whatever photographic success I can claim? What’s my number one photography tip?

I always take the effing walk.

By that I mean: get off my butt, go outside, and walk around taking lots of photos.

I know, I know. I should be talking about lighting, composition, the rule of thirds, leading lines — all the technical stuff photographers love.

And yes, all of that matters. But only if you actually go outside.

Besides, since I only take photos with a smartphone — currently a Google Pixel 9 Pro XL — I’m not at all versed in fancy lenses or how to adjust my f-stops to get the perfect depth of field, yadda yadda yadda. (Perhaps I shouldn’t be admitting any of this in a newsletter devoted to … photography?)

But I always take the effing walk. (Well, almost always.)

I love photography and walking, so I usually don’t need much motivating.

But sometimes it’s too cold, too hot, the light isn’t great, or the weather isn’t cooperating. Perhaps I don’t feel like taking public transit somewhere different, or I’m just bored by our current destination.

So I hem and haw before finally getting off my butt.

But once I do, the vast majority of the time, I not only have a great time — I also come home with at least a few photos I genuinely love.

Here in Puyallup is hardly the only time that’s happened. It’s happened in Osaka, Japan, Ohrid, North Macedonia, Port Townsend, Washington, and, well, the list goes on.

I’d like to think that after nine years of travel — and six years devoted seriously to photography — I’ve developed something of an eye for composition and a modest sense of visual storytelling.

But if I’m being completely honest, what probably serves me best is my sheer, bloody-minded persistence.

And lots and lots of pictures.

After all, the name of this newsletter is Michael Takes Too Many Pictures.

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

But being high above a city or a coastline with a view usually only afforded to our feathered friends is a special feeling most of us don’t get every day.

I even like it better than flying over a city. For starters, you get more than just a fleeting glimpse. You can take it all in. And moving around the observation deck, you can see the entire city.

It’s about as close to feeling like a god as I think you can be.

What exactly is an observation tower? How does it differ from a skyscraper with an observation deck?

It’s a structure built primarily to offer panoramic views out over cities. (They often serve as radio and TV towers as well.)

Many skyscrapers also have observation decks offering panoramic views. But those observation decks are add-ons, not the reason the skyscraper was built, which is usually for commercial or residential purposes.

Observation towers are typically slender structures with a viewing capsule at the top and do not include residential space. Any commercial spaces are strictly for visiting tourists.

The Space Needle in Seattle is an observation tower. The Columbia Center, also in Seattle, is a high-rise with an observation deck.

Thanks to the invention of elevators, observation towers as tourist attractions came into their own at the end of the 19th century.

When the Eiffel Tower opened in 1889, it stood 300 m (984 ft) and was the tallest building in the world. Thanks to those new-fangled elevators, millions of visitors rode to the top for spectacular views of Paris.

Like mushrooms after a good rain, observation towers have been springing up around the world ever since.

Some are testaments to man’s ingenuity; others to man’s ability to badly imitate others’ work.

Here are eight I have visited, along with a few thoughts on each.

Space Needle, Seattle, Washington

Since Seattle is my adopted hometown, I’m starting there.

Perhaps I’m biased, but of all the futuristic towers built — and there are some bad ones; hello, the Stratosphere in Las Vegas — the Space Needle, at 184 meters (605 feet), stands head and saucer above the rest. (At least figuratively; plenty are actually taller.)

It wasn’t the first building with a saucer on top — that was the Theme Building in 1961 at LAX airport in Los Angeles, which only stands 135 feet tall.

A year later, Seattle literally took it to an entire other level, reaching 605 feet and creating an iconic image — that saucer, those spindly legs — known around the world.

The Space Needle was constructed incredibly quickly, taking only 400 days and opening just in time for the 1962 World’s Fair.

While Seattle isn’t as earthquake-prone as San Francisco, quakes are a real possibility. The Space Needle rests on a foundation of a 30‑foot‑deep, 120‑foot‑wide concrete base. That base weighs almost as much as everything above ground. That allows it to sway and absorb the energy from a quake without cracking.

Another thing I love about the Space Needle is that it’s located just outside the city core. That means it not only offers great views of downtown but also of Puget Sound, the Cascades, and the Olympic Peninsula.

It’s one of the best views from an observation tower I’ve ever seen, earning it…

🗼🗼🗼🗼🗼

Coit Tower, San Francisco

Perched atop San Francisco’s Telegraph Hill, Coit Tower might not be the most aesthetically pleasing observation tower, but it has a pretty interesting history.

Completed in October 1933 and standing a very modest 210 feet (64 m), the tower was paid for by a rather eccentric woman named Lillie Hitchcock Coit.

Apparently, as a young girl, Mrs. Coit lent a hand pulling a firetruck up Telegraph Hill. That led to a lifelong relationship between her and the fire department, culminating in her leaving the money to build Coit Tower as a monument to San Francisco’s firemen who died fighting blazes.

Which might explain why the tower rather looks like a giant firehose nozzle. The tower is actually built in the Art Deco style popular at the time — and thanks to a New Deal program, includes a series of impressive murals inside depicting Depression-era California.

Coit Tower might not have the best views (though they aren’t terrible) or the greatest architecture, but thanks to those murals and that history, I give it…

🗼🗼🗼

Brighton i360, Brighton, UK, and Spinnaker Tower, Portsmouth, UK

Not all observation towers are created equal — and here are two that emphatically prove it.

In fact, the Brighton i360 is so hideously ugly, I have to wonder if the architect who conceived it actually hated the city.

That column looks like a concrete sewer pipe fell out of the sky, and no one could be bothered picking it up.

Standing at 162 metres (531 ft) tall, this tower at least puts a unique spin on the observation tower. That’s because it’s also a ride that carries guests from the Brighton beachfront up into the sky.

I will allow that the viewing pod, which is completely clear, offers visitors incredible views. But even when seen from a distance, i360 does not improve Brighton’s skyline.

Several other things bug me.

First, the entire “ride” takes about twenty-five minutes. That means guests have only a brief moment at the top to savor the view. It also means most visitors will have to wait at least 25 minutes for their turn, and possibly longer, depending on the length of the line.

Yeah, no.

Only fifty miles separates Brighton from Portsmouth, but when it comes to their observation towers, they might as well be in different galaxies.

Where the i360 looks like it was conceived by a failed architectural Scrooge with a grudge against beauty, Portsmouth’s Spinnaker Tower is the complete opposite.

Not only does it reflect the town’s maritime past, but its elegant design, mimicking a sailboat’s sail, fits in almost seamlessly with Portsmouth’s waterfront.

It might only stand 170 meters (560 feet), but it’s a thing of beauty with great views, earning it…

🗼🗼🗼🗼

Meanwhile, the Brighton i360 mars an otherwise nice seafront, earning it…

🗼🗼

Tokyo Tower

When it comes to observation towers, few countries are as committed to them as Japan. In fact, Japan has twenty, with Tokyo claiming two, including the Tokyo Skytree, which stands 634 meters (2,080 feet). That makes it one of the tallest structures in the world.

But based on the reviews, including the hassle of getting there, and then having to wait in two lines to get to the top, I skipped it.

Instead, I went to the smaller Tokyo Tower with much smaller expectations.

But as soon as I drew near, I started to wonder if I’d underestimated it.

If you’re thinking that Tokyo Tower, which opened in December 1958 and stands at 333 meters (1,092 ft), looks a lot like that famous tower in Paris, you aren’t mistaken.

And it didn’t happen by accident.

Emerging from the devastation of World War II, Japan sought to make a statement: the country was back, looking toward the future.

And what better way to do that than a massive radio and television antenna to bring television to the Japanese people?

The orange-and-white palette was meant to comply with aviation safety regulations. While it should have turned the tower into an eyesore, it actually really works.

I found it striking, and I loved how it makes the tower stand out from a distance...

...which is why I give it

🗼🗼🗼🗼

Tsūtenkaku Tower, Osaka, Japan

It’s hard to make a case that Osaka’s Tsūtenkaku Tower is aesthetically pleasing. This 103-meter (338-feet) structure has the subtlety of a punch to the face.

Where other observation towers are slender and pleasing to look at, Tsūtenkaku rises above Osaka like a metallic sumo wrestler. It doesn’t help that it’s basically an ad for Hitachi, which owns it, or that a very kitschy slide has been attached to the side.

And once inside, you run a gauntlet of dated products for sale from Glico. This Japanese food conglomerate created Pocky, the chocolate-covered pretzels you see everywhere in Japan.

But at night? Much like Osaka itself, Tsūtenkaku is illuminated in neon blues, greens, and yellows, transforming it into something still tacky but that blends in perfectly with the sort of tacky Shinsekai neighborhood it looms over: even the retro candies and very outdated displays inside the tower work.

The whole thing is kitschy and garish and yet impossible not to love at least a little, earning it…

🗼🗼🗼½🗼

Petřín Tower and Žižkov Television Tower, Prague, Czech Republic

While it isn’t surprising that a megacity like Tokyo has two observation towers, it surprised me that Prague, with a population of 1.4 million, has two as well.

If Petřín Tower, 63.5 metres (208 feet) tall, also reminds you of the Eiffel Tower, that’s because a Czech hiking club visited Paris’ World’s Fair, and fell in love with the French landmark.

But rather than bringing back a souvenir replica Eiffel Tower, members of the club raised enough to build their own tower in 1891.

The tower does have lovely views out over Prague, and I have to admit that if you’re going to rip off something, you might as well rip off something classic.

Prague’s second observation tower can’t be accused of stealing anyone else’s ideas. If you’ve spent time in Prague, you probably know the city can be a little weird. Chalk it up to that Bohemian past.

And the Žižkov Television Tower, which began construction in 1985 and stands 216 metres (709 feet) high, fits right in with that Czech weirdness.

Where other observation towers are generally slender and simple, Žižkov looks as if Salvador Dalí decided to take a crack at designing one.

Upon completion, the tower was not well-received by the general public, who hated the way it intruded on the skyline and also saw it as a symbol of Soviet oppression.

But over time — and after ten crawling baby sculptures were affixed to the structure’s columns in 2000, because why not? — the Czech people decided maybe it wasn’t so bad.

I actually love the structure both for its weirdness and the designers’ willingness to swing for the fences, which is why I give Žižkov …

🗼🗼🗼🗼

Meanwhile, Petřín Tower, which pretty much only imitates the Eiffel Tower, without really doing anything else interesting, only earns…

🗼🗼🗼

That’s it! Feel free to share your favorite observation towers or any thoughts about these!

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Michael Jensen is a novelist and editor. For a newsletter with more of my photos, visit me at www.MichaelJensen.com.

What’s the hardest part of writing this newsletter?

Choosing what to write about.

Osaka alone presented me with too many options: Osaka Castle; the futuristic Umeda district of high-rises and malls that put America’s to shame; Osaka Station City, the vast transit hub where I might have gotten lost; and, of course, Dotonbori, with its neon chaos, giant octopus signs, and endless food.

I’ll get to all of them eventually. Maybe. At least I hope so.

But this time, I chose Shinsekai.

Shinse-whatsit?

Shinsekai is a unique entertainment district in Osaka, Japan, with a retro, slightly rough-around-the-edges vibe.

There you’ll find a restaurant where you can catch a fish and have it cooked for you, which is so tacky but also so much fun.

It also has a porno theater — yes, there are still porno theaters — an observation tower inspired by that one in Paris, tons of bright colors, and loads of cheap Japanese eats.

Shinsekai is a perfect collision of kitsch, grit, and Showa‑era nostalgia — the Japan of roughly 1926 to 1989 — and I fell for it fast.

Shinsekai means “New World,” and when it was created in 1912, the name was aspirational — as in France and the United States.

Osaka wanted to announce itself on the world stage, so the newly developed neighborhood was modeled on an improbable mashup of Paris and New York’s Coney Island. Hot dogs and bouillabaisse, side by side.

It shouldn’t have worked. History says it did.

The southern half featured a Luna Park amusement area inspired by Coney Island, while the northern half was anchored by the original Tsutenkaku Tower — “the tower reaching heaven” — a hybrid of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. At 64 meters, it was the second‑tallest structure in Asia when it opened and quickly became the neighborhood's symbol.

Things started unraveling in the 1940s.

A fire badly damaged the tower in 1943, and during World War II, its steel was repurposed for the war effort. When Tsutenkaku was rebuilt in 1956, the Arc de Triomphe platform was gone because, let’s face it, hot dogs sell better than a fancy fish stew.

The new version rose to 103 meters and looked like the Eiffel Tower had a brief but ill‑advised fling with a pachinko machine. The result was part tower, part antenna, and part sci‑fi invader from The War of the Worlds.

The rebuilt tower revived Shinsekai, but not as a refined tourist destination. Tourists of all sorts still came, but the district itself became strictly working‑class, shaped by day laborers rebuilding Osaka and by those same laborers relaxing there at night.

Cheap food ruled. Kushikatsu — skewered, breaded, and deep‑fried meats, vegetables, and seafood — became the local specialty, alongside takoyaki, those famous balls of dough stuffed with octopus.

Movie theaters (including porno theaters), pachinko parlors, and other low‑rent attractions followed. Combined with nearby Tobita Shinchi, Osaka’s red‑light district, Shinsekai gained a reputation for seediness. By the 1970s, it was considered unsafe — by Japanese standards anyway, which is to say, still safer than most cities elsewhere.

Today, that reputation has mostly faded. Shinsekai is a popular tourist area, though it remains defiantly rough around the edges.

There are still a few sketchy corners, some homelessness, and that one remaining porno theater. None of it feels dangerous; mostly, it feels real, like actual Japanese people live here.

What dominates most of Shinsekai now is retro charm. Paris is long gone, but Coney Island lives on in the form of “shateki” shooting arcades where adults and kids line up to win snacks with pop guns.

And archery parlors proclaim “Shoot like a samurai!” and ring bells when you hit a bullseye.

There are even places where you can throw real shuriken (sharp-edged metal stars) — only do it before you quaff the Asahi beer on sale everywhere.

There are also electromechanical games that predate video games, old-fashioned pachinko halls, and — quite unexpectedly — a tattoo parlor, still an act of rebellion in Japan.

Then there are the restaurant façades. Shinsekai has the oversized mascots and food you expect in Osaka — crabs, chefs, sushi, and more.

But it also has something better: a massive illuminated nebuta panel mounted on the front of Yokozuna, a kushikatsu restaurant.

The moment I saw it, I was fascinated.

Nebuta art comes from the Aomori Prefecture in northern Japan, where artists stretch paper over huge wire frames, paint dramatic figures from myth and history, and light them from within for summer festivals.

(Because I’m a sucker for festivals featuring large sculptures, I am going to have to visit Aomori to see this for myself.)

One half of this Shinsekai panel depicts the Shichifukujin, the Lucky Gods of Japan, sailing on the Takarabune, a treasure ship. The seven deities come from Japanese mythology, Buddhism, and Taoism. Together, they grant good fortune, happiness, prosperity, health, wisdom, and protection.

This nebuta panel isn’t just a simple decoration to catch passersby's eyes. It’s a glowing offer to the gods for success, exactly what a restaurant (and a neighborhood) needs in this day and age.

Osaka loves things big, loud, and unapologetically colorful, and Shinsekai doubles down on all of it. The surprise isn’t that a nebuta panel ended up here — it’s that there aren’t more.

Finally, there’s Shinsekai’s strangest mascot: the Billiken, a good luck charm doll that briefly became popular in the early 20th century.

Despite appearances, Billiken isn’t Japanese. Believe it or not, it comes from America.

It was created in 1908 by American artist Florence Pretz, who dreamed up what she called a god of “things as they ought to be.”

Somehow, this grinning, barefoot oddity was adopted by Osaka, and nowhere more completely than Shinsekai. So completely, in fact, that most people now assume it originated here.

Billikens large and small are everywhere in Shinsekai (and Dotonbori). Some loom over restaurants, others are small and tucked away.

Billiken is a symbol of luck, happiness, and contentment. Tradition says you’re supposed to rub his feet for good fortune, which is both strange and a little unsanitary.

But that’s Shinsekai for you: strange, scruffy, joyful, and stubbornly itself — a neighborhood that shouldn’t work, but absolutely does.

Now I just need to figure out what my next newsletter should be about!

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Buongiorno, dear readers!

Come, sit. After another year wandering the world and taking pictures with Michael, El Divo is as spent as a Vespa climbing a Roman hill while carrying a gigante opera singer.

What’s that? Who am I? Santa Lasagna, have you really made it this far without knowing? I’m Michael’s Pixel — his ever-faithful camera — and much like an industrious Italian nonna holding the household together as everyone else takes the credit, I’m the one doing the real heavy lifting while Michael gallivants around the world.

This year, Michael and I explored some of Asia’s great cities, ventured into the Chinese hinterlands, hiked to Mexican waterfalls, and much more.

How many pictures did our erstwhile leader take? How many stars are there in the sky? No, mi amores, he didn’t take quite that many, but he edited more than 20,000 photos alone — and he's tasked me with winnowing them down to just 24 for this newsletter.

Mamma mia!

El Divo loves a challenge, but he must admit this was almost — but not quite! — beyond him.

Here are the ones your divo chose for 2025.

January — Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Ah, Puerto Vallarta. We swept into Mexico just hours before the New Year, and honestly, what an entrance. Muy fabuloso.

Especially the sunsets—por favor. The universe has blessed Puerto Vallarta as the Land of Endless Flaming Skies. Trust me, I lost count. Michael didn’t, of course. He photographed every single one.

Now, Michael may swoon over his pretty colors, but he also tries to tell the whole story of a place. Beauty, grit, charm, chaos — he wants it all in the frame.

And let me tell you, wander just a few blocks away from Puerto Vallarta’s glossy tourist zones, and the mood shifts fast. It’s real, it’s raw, and Michael went straight for it with his camera like a moth to a slightly dingy flame.

February — Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Honestly, we cannot talk about Mexico without bowing dramatically to its food. The flavors alone could make a grown diva weep, and half the dishes look like they were plated by Aztec gods moonlighting as artists. It’s delicious, it’s gorgeous, and Michael photographed it like it was a runway model.

Michael isn’t really a “bucket list” traveler — he rolls his eyes at the phrase, trust me. But even he had one secret wish tucked away since his very first trip to Puerto Vallarta: a private whale-watching adventure. Yes, private. The man wanted his own boat, his own captain, and his own whales. And this year, he finally made it happen.

March — Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

But don’t let me fool you — Puerto Vallarta is far more than food, whales, and those sunsets Michael won’t stop photographing.

It’s one of the most LGBTQ-friendly corners of the planet, darling. It’s got lush hikes that practically beg for a dramatic entrance, and it’s bursting with art — sculptures along the Malecón, fantastic galleries, and street art that’s so good even I had to stop and pose.

But let’s be honest: at its core, Puerto Vallarta is about pure, unfiltered fun. Sunshine, cocktails, and — yes, I’m not blind — the parade of hot, Speedo-clad men splashing around like they’re in a very spirited cologne commercial. Michael noticed. I noticed. We all noticed.

Alas, Michael’s self-restraint was stronger than his shutter finger, so you’ll have to imagine the whole cannoli.

April — San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Brent and Michael traded Puerto Vallarta’s beaches for the high-desert drama of San Miguel de Allende. But how to choose only two photos to capture this wildly colorful city?

Please. A divo rises to the moment.

Behold the Parroquia, the church as glorious as ever, revealed from a vantage point only a true divo would dare.

San Miguel isn’t only pastel facades and graceful churches. Not everyone there gets to live in a villa and bask in the city’t beauty; many are fighting each day just to earn a few extra pesos. Even a photographer and his divo must pause and acknowledge that truth.

May — Mineral de Pozos and Guanajuato, México

Of all the trials this mission put El Divo through, picking just one photo from the dazzling parade of Indigenous tribes at a festival in Mineral de Pozos was the cruelest.

So many extraordinary outfits, so much color — how’s a divo to choose?

And Guanajuato — the most colorful city in all of Mexico — was no kinder. That choice was every bit as daunting!

June — Seoul, South Korea

Ah, Seoul! Immense! Vibrant! Scorching beyond reason! No matter — Michael and El Divo do not know the meaning of “surrender.”

Cheonggyecheon Stream — a revelation! A miles-long ribbon of water threading through the heart of Seoul, offering shade, respite, and a spot to dip one’s toes.

El Divo nearly felt like an 50s movie star dancing in Trevi Fountain itself, La Dolce Vita style.

July — Taipei, Taiwan

In Taiwan, Michael discovered a stream of a very different sort — Taipei’s legendary scooter waterfall. Every morning, thousands upon thousands of scooters cascade off the Taipei Bridge into the city’s heart.

Bellissimo!

El Divo could have chosen so many other photos — the glorious Taipei 101; the temples; the endless night markets, easily the best in the world.

But sometimes a photographer must reveal another face of the city — something unexpected, a glimpse of the everyday, the quietly ordinary beneath the spectacle.

August — Ping’an, China

El Divo risks sounding like a broken record, endlessly mourning the difficulty of his task. But oh — it remains undeniable!

How to capture nine days in Southern China? By choosing a single, humble village, home to some of the most breathtaking rice terraces on Earth.

While Michael delighted in photographing this extraordinary place, one must not forget that it exists only because of the tireless labor of those who cannot roam the world as he is fortunate enough to do.

Life, mi amores…is never fair.

September — Hong Kong, China

Yes, it’s a cliché that Hong Kong is a forest of skyscrapers clawing at the heavens. But just because it’s a cliché… does not make it any less magnificent.

Alas, even beneath Hong Kong’s glittering skyline lies a shadow. “Cardboard grannies” — elderly women, and occasionally even men — scour the streets, gathering cardboard to sell for a few yuan, eking out a meager living.

October — the mountains of central Japan

Michael traded Hong Kong’s blazing heat and chaos for the serene embrace of Japan’s mountains.

Glorious, simply glorious.

The purpose of the journey? To witness Japan’s trees shedding their summer hues for autumn’s exquisite wardrobe. Is there anything more enchanting than a Japanese lake shrouded in morning mist?

El Divo doubts it.

November — Osaka, Japan

El Divo cannot speak of Osaka without speaking of food. Japan’s second city is called “the nation’s kitchen” for a reason, beloved for everything from takoyaki to okonomiyaki.

And let me tell you — Osakans take fierce pride in what they cook…and in what they devour.

How El Divo agonized over the second photo to show Osaka’s charms. Dotonbori’s wild neon? The endless covered shopping arcades known as shotengai? The regal beauty of Osaka Castle?

In the end, El Divo chose a quiet street corner and a restaurant aglow.

December — Kyoto, Japan

What can El Divo possibly say about Kyoto, Japan’s temple-and-shrine-stuffed wonderland?

Well… it’s gorgeous, obviously. It’s also absolutely, unapologetically overrun with tourists. Michael and Brent spent two days there, and at times it felt less like a serene cultural escape and more like a mosh pit in the Roman Forum during the Festival of Absolutely Too Many People.

Go — of course. Just be prepared to use your gladiator skills to navigate the crowds.

Kyoto is a city built for reflection: temples, shrines, and quietly meandering paths that practically dare El Divo not to ponder the meaning of life. And tucked among those sacred spaces are countless cemeteries — quiet stone reminders that contemplation here isn’t just encouraged, it’s woven into the landscape.

As autumn slipped into winter, the trees giving up their last flashes of color before spring calls everything back to life, that atmosphere hit especially hard. Just before arriving in Kyoto, Michael and Brent had lost a friend.

And honestly, where better than this place—this soft, thoughtful, ancient city—to stop for a while and remember her?

And with that, we close the curtain on our year. El Divo hopes 2025 was kind to you — and if it wasn’t, may 2026 have the decency to overcompensate. Michael an I shall see you in the next one.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Back when Brent and I lived in Seattle, we had a nice house with a cedar fence. One morning, we woke up to find the fence defaced with an incoherent spray-painted scrawl.

I was pissed. You had to be a real asshole to do that to someone else’s property.

On the other hand, I’ve always loved street art.

Brent and I became digital nomads nine years ago, and whenever we travel across Europe, I hate all the graffiti we see — on historic buildings in Lisbon, on statues in Naples, and on trains in Barcelona.

How could people ruin such beautiful things? Or intrude on spaces that belong to everyone?

Then, three years ago, we spent a month in the Exarcheia neighborhood of Athens — easily the most graffiti-covered place I have ever seen.

I mean, it’s insane.

Almost every surface was hit: doorways, shutters, shop signs — even some of the neighborhood’s gorgeous street art.

What’s the difference between graffiti and street art? Why do I like one but not the other?

Graffiti is all about ostentatious tags and garishly spray-painted messages on public and private property. It’s done quickly, mostly without permission, and is often illegal.

If you want to be poetic about it, think of it as the raw voice of the streets.

​Street art, meanwhile, turns city walls into giant canvases — but with permission. It’s usually more about sharing beauty or ideas with the public, so even folks who aren’t into graffiti can end up loving street art on a neighborhood stroll.

Because we stayed a whole month, Exarcheia’s graffiti became part of my daily life.

And it was so ubiquitous and insanely colorful — as if a cargo plane filled with spray paint had exploded over the neighborhood — that I couldn’t resist taking hundreds of photos.

As photogenic as it was, something in me still bristled. It felt wrong — too much, too messy, especially when someone scribbled over an actual piece of art.

But I also grew increasingly curious. Why was graffiti here so out of control? Why did the people who lived here tolerate it? And where were the police?

It turned out the neighborhood dates back to the 1870s, when Athens was rapidly urbanizing. Exarcheia was already home to two universities, which attracted students, intellectuals, and progressive thinkers.

By the early 20th century, Exarcheia had taken on a bohemian vibe — the sort of place where people didn’t necessarily follow all the rules or conventions of society, and weren’t shy about speaking out about pretty much everything.

During the Axis Occupation of Greece in WWII, the neighborhood was filled with Nazi resistors staging protests against their German occupiers. That was when slogans and political writings first began appearing on the walls of Exarcheia.

Things escalated dramatically after a military junta took over Greece in 1967. Students at Athens Polytechnic had been protesting for years, but in 1973 they launched an uprising that sparked a series of political crises and ultimately helped topple the government.

That moment cemented Exarcheia’s identity as a place where resisting authority wasn’t just common — it was the culture.

By the 1990s, graffiti became more widespread as residents used free expression to criticize capitalism, government corruption, homophobia, sexual violence, and more.

But it didn’t reach today’s levels until 2008, when police shot and killed fifteen-year-old Alexandros Grigoropoulos.

His death set off a wave of protests — not just against the killing, but against how the young and the poor were suffering during Greece’s economic crisis.

Learning this history changed how I felt.

What I had dismissed as vandalism had deeper roots — and more meaning — than I’d imagined.

Then I asked a question I should have asked from the start: What did the residents of Exarcheia think? And how did Greeks in general feel about graffiti, because it appeared all throughout the city, even if nothing matched Exarcheia’s intensity.

A local told me, “If you choose to live in this neighborhood, you know what it’s all about. This is part of why you live here.”

That made sense. Rebelliousness and graffiti grew up here together; complaining about it would be like moving next to an airport and then griping about the planes.

But outside of Exarcheia, people aren’t quite so understanding. Both city and federal governments have launched campaigns to “clean up” the area, which, it must be said, has a gritty, rundown feel.

Abandoned buildings have been taken over by migrants — or squatters, depending on your point of view. Crime happens in some of its shadowier corners.

It is not a “pretty” place.

Many residents see the cleanup attempts as something more nefarious: a political effort to stifle critical voices.

It’s not for me to say who’s right.

But living in the area challenged me. Where I saw only graffiti and someone’s personal property being violated, others saw something of value.

“Greeks don’t think the way you do,” a local friend told me. “We push back against authority. We value speaking out. So a lot of people feel the outsides of the buildings belong to everyone.”

As a former homeowner and a middle-class American, that idea was a lot to absorb.

Nine years of travel have upended many of my old assumptions about the world.

The world has turned out to be even more complicated than I thought. I’ve even changed my mind about graffiti — at least in part.

I still don’t like graffiti, and in most places, I don’t like seeing it.

But it also depends on context.

I’m grateful that places like Exarcheia exist: places that force us to rethink what we believe — to look at things we might otherwise overlook.

And looking more closely at the world is something the world needs more of.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

I spot a small temple wedged between two larger buildings. Somewhere inside, a priest chants into the humid night.

Incense coils upward, its pungent scent thick in the air. A plate of ripe mangoes and a bottle of green tea rest on a table beside a stack of fake paper money waiting to be burned.

It’s the seventh month of the Chinese calendar — Ghost Month — when hungry spirits and forgotten souls return to walk among the living, waiting to be placated with offerings.

A voice stirs at my shoulder.

“Ah, good you are here. I’ve been expecting you.”

I turn and see an old man made of smoke, his outline wavering in the lantern’s glow. For a moment, I’m confused. Then a jolt of recognition: he’s a ghost!

I take a quick step backward.

“Yes, I am a ghost, but you have nothing to fear. I am Master Liang, and I was once the master of this temple before I died unloved and unmourned like many spirits who visit this time of year.” He shakes his head sadly and then extends his hand. “But that is the past. Walk with me, Lao wai — the name we call you Westerners — and meet the other lost souls of this marvelous city.”

Hesitantly, I reach out. Our hands touch…

…and the world wheels away.

I stand on a rooftop high above the city.

I stagger, frantic to catch my balance before I fall. “You are fine, Lao wai,” says Master Liang. “You have nothing to fear.”

How on earth can he say that? I don’t want to fall to my death!

In front of me stands a bare-chested, bare-footed man also made of strands of smoke. He is dressed simply — a straw hat and pants tied at the waist with a rope. He faces the sunset before slowly turning toward us.

“I came from Chiayi over a century ago, a boy alone with nothing but a hoe,” he says, voice brittle as dried reeds. “We bent our backs in the mud where these towers stand now. Rice paddies, water buffalo, dragonflies. Taipei was endless fields before it was endless glass.”

The skyline burns orange. Each tower rises like a monument from soil he once cut with a blade.

He gestures toward the city. “I grew that rice for richer people. But there was never enough for me, so I died far too young.”

“Here you go,” says Master Liang’s ghost, offering the man a bowl of smoky rice that appears from beneath his robes. He takes it and turns back to face the sunset.

Master Liang says to me, “During Ghost Month, it’s our duty to feed the dead who still wander here.” Then he takes my hand, and the world spins away once more.

We arrive at a busy intersection in the Xinyi District, where the wet pavement is painted red and yellow.

The light changes, and hordes of pedestrians rush forward, a river of scooters flowing alongside them.

But not all. One woman remains motionless, her gaze fixed on a spot in the crosswalk. I don’t realize she’s a ghost until another woman clutching an umbrella passes through her smoky, swirling body.

“Every Ghost Month,” says Master Liang, “she stands here the entire time staring at the spot where she and her child died in a scooter accident. People who died tragically are often lost, lonely spirits unable to move on.”

The woman turns to me. “Have you seen my Yu-Ting?” she asks.

“No,” I whisper, confused as to why she thinks I might have. The woman frowns and turns away as the traffic whizzes past. She’s unsettled me, but my heart breaks for all that she has lost.

Master Liang’s ghost touches my shoulder. “Come, there is more to see.”

The world whirls away once more.

When I can focus again, a gleaming white monument stands before me.

We stand at the foot of Chiang Kai-shek’s memorial, the military commander who ruled Taiwan with an iron fist for a quarter of a century.

During the day, the hall is an impressive sight. At night, it’s also mysterious and foreboding.

A young soldier made of slowly swirling smoke stands at attention, motionless beneath the blue-lit arch.

“For many years, I was a devoted follower of Chiang Kai-shek. But when I started to have doubts about the things he did and asked the wrong questions, my honor was questioned. I was executed and died a hated traitor.”

The soldier faces us.

“You were a soldier loyal to your fellow countrymen,” says Master Liang. He gestures at a glowing temple. “You can join your comrades and rest now.”

The soldier slowly shakes his head. “This is not for you to say.” He turns to smoke and fades away.

“Forgiveness comes hard for the forgotten dead,” says Master Liang.

The world turns, and I find myself standing at a place I know. A narrow street is packed with people and street vendors selling food of every kind. It’s one of Taipei’s glorious night markets.

“This is Linjiang Market,” I say, smelling the spices and incense wafting through the air, though there is something strange about them now. “My husband and I often walk here at night.”

“Yes,” says Master Liang, a sad, knowing look on his face. “Many do, and in many ways, this is the heart of Taipei. Which is why she comes here every Ghost Month.”

My eyes scan the crowd, finally resting on a stooped older woman shimmering under the light of the orange lamps.

“My husband and I sold squid skewers here for twenty years,” she says. “Then he died, and I had to live alone for many more years. And alone and forgotten is how I died.” She gestures at the crowd. “At least now some of them burn paper money, paper houses, even paper iPhones for me, though I don’t really know what that is.” She smiles. “Oh, well, it’s the thought that feeds us.”

One of the lanterns overhead sputters out, and the woman fades away.

I turn to go, but Master Liang touches my arm and points at a luminous arcade filled with claw machines.

A young girl made of white smoke stands before a machine stuffed with brightly colored toys, a wistful look on her face.

“Papa said he would win me the pink dolphin like the ones that once lived in the Yangtze.” She looks at me with a sober expression. “But then I got a fever and died, which broke Papa’s heart.” She fixes her gaze on me. “Have you seen my papa?”

“No,” I whisper, annoyed that these ghosts keep asking me for help I cannot give.

I look at Master Liang, imploring him to do something.

He kneels next to the girl, a translucent lamp in his hand.

“Look, child,” he says, gesturing to a path created by the lamp. “It’s time for you to go and rest for another year. I think your papa might be waiting for you.”

The girl looks and smiles, then walks away slowly, an unseen breeze pulling her into smoky tendrils fading away to nothingness.

“Come,” Master Liang says to me. “Ghost Month is nearly over, and there is more you must see. And understand.”

He takes my hand, and instead of being whisked away, we walk the empty streets of Taipei. A misty rain falls, but it’s so gentle, I don’t seem to feel it.

A white lantern shines strangely bright, showing a glistening path along the street.

A middle-aged woman steps out of a darkened storefront. “When Ghost Month ends, we send them home,” she murmurs. “Lanterns to light the way back across the dark.”

She touches the lantern, which slowly twirls. When it stops, the woman has vanished, and the lantern has gone dark. Strangely, the path is still illuminated.

“Our time is drawing to an end,” says Master Liang. “And we must go. I have one more thing to show you.”

We walk for a short time until we come to the stairs that will carry us up to the top of Elephant Mountain. I’ve made this climb twice before, and it’s always a sweaty, arduous journey.

Tonight, though, it isn’t hard at all. I feel as light as a feather.

We reach the summit, which has the most amazing views of Taipei.

I love it here. I could stay here forever.

Master Liang and I sit companionably, watching the night deepen until Taipei glitters like the forgotten jewels of a long-dead emperor.

Eventually, Master Liang says, “Have you remembered this time, Lao wai?”

“Remembered what?”

“What happened here a dozen years ago.”

“A dozen years ago? This is my first time in Taipei, so how would I know a thing like that?”

“Think,” says Master Liang. “A stormy night. The city misty and aglow. You thought it the loveliest thing you’d ever seen, and wanted a perfect picture.”

I frown, a strange memory coming to me. Of me standing near the edge, too close for such a wet and windy night. I had slipped and fallen…but at the last minute, caught myself before I fell over the edge.

“No, I don’t remember anything,” I say defiantly. “Now I really want to go home to Brent.”

Master Liang wears the same sad, knowing look he had earlier. “It’s the same every year,” he says.

“What is?” I ask.

“Some who die refuse to let go of this world. They refuse to remember, no matter how many times I show them the truth.”

I grow cross. “What does any of that have to do with me?"

Master Liang looks at me kindly. “Never mind. Ghost Month is over, and you must go back to where you came.”

I look down at my body, which is twisting in the breeze, a strange unraveling I don’t understand. Or perhaps deep down I do, but I refuse to think about that.

Instead, the world shimmers and fades away, but not until I hear Master Liang say, “Perhaps next year you will remember, Lao wai.”

Note: Ghost Month actually took place this year from August 23 to September 21, but I figured October was a good time to share this.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Yes, I am a piece of technology, but my spirit is of the Mediterranean deities who once wandered through my Italian homeland. As such, I have always cherished colors such as azure and cerulean, seafoam green, and above all, the sun-bleached white of old stone walls.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t admire other palettes!

Take San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where I recently spent two months with Michael, as he photographed everything not fast enough to escape his ravenous gaze.

Perched high on a plateau, the city bakes under a fierce sun, its walls glowing in burnt oranges, mustard yellows, rusts, and ochres.

And yet San Miguel is no monochrome town devoted only to earth tones. Her people dress in every shade, and nature adds her own touches to the stone walls and cobblestoned streets.

Spend a day with me in this extraordinary city.

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Sunrise! Michael’s favorite time of day, thanks to the golden hour and empty streets.

Let’s walk down into the city as it slowly wakes.

The morning light bathes the Parroquia — an ancient church and the very heart and soul of San Miguel — in its delicate hues.

The most famous part of the building — that soaring Gothic façade, all pink spires and “Look at me!” theatricality — was added more than two centuries after the original church. And what a contrast!

That union perfectly reflects San Miguel itself: the fusion of old and new, foreigner and local, past and present, all melding together into a city that shimmers.

San Miguel may mostly dress herself in earth tones — rust, mustard, ochre — but she is no austere señora. Splashes of turquoise, fuchsia, and lime burst forth like children from a playground.

It’s hard not to feel amused while roaming her charming streets.

And naturally, La Madre Natura insists on playing decorator too — flinging bougainvillea across the walls, draping ivy like scarves, as if to say, “Darling, your outfit was simply too plain without me.”

Or perhaps El Divo projects.

Ah, bougainvillea: that shameless climber adored in Italy and Greece, draping itself everywhere like a speedo-clad Theo James in that new Dolce & Gabbana ad that nearly overheated El Divo’s processor past the breaking point.

But did you know she — bougainvillea, not Mr. James — is no Mediterranean native? No, darling, her roots lie in Brazil, land of samba, sun, and men in speedos so tiny they could be mistaken for postage stamps.

Naturally, Europeans whisked her back across the ocean, along with gold, jewels, and countless treasures that, let us be honest, were never truly theirs.

But hush: let us not brood on that ugly past when there is much beauty to be enjoyed.

Instead, let us turn to art, for San Miguel overflows with it — her walls alive with murals as vivid as her flowers.

Some celebrate Mexico’s indigenous past in bold, vibrant symbols.

Others weave clever combinations of imagery, including, yes, bougainvillea itself, blazing in reds, purples, oranges, and pinks.

But my favorite mural is not on the street at all.

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No, it hides within the Biblioteca Pública, where local artist David Leonardo Chávez unleashed an explosion of Mexican culture and indigenous spirit across the walls: a symphony of searing oranges and blazing reds.

It is less a painting than a vision, as if the artist had tasted peyote and tumbled headfirst into the heart of the sun.

Of course, not all art here aspires to such grandeur.

Take these strings of brightly colored plastic. From below, they are little more than another Instagram cliché, begging for a flowing red dress and a pout. San Miguel, it seems, is not above such indulgences.

But from above? Ah! A shift in perspective, and suddenly the banal becomes the sublime.

Sometimes art is not intentional, nor even called "art” at all. Michael has spoken before of “elegant decay” — that peculiar beauty born when time leaves its fingerprints on the everyday.

Take this wall: the street sign, charming enough on its own, becomes something greater as the bricks crack and the paint surrounding it fades. Together they merge into a quiet masterpiece, a testament to the poetry of time.

And then there are happy accidents, like this gem on one of San Miguel’s narrow streets.

At first glance, it could be a perfectly staged ad for the beloved VW Beetle — or “vicho,” as Mexicans affectionately call them — but no, darling, it is pure serendipity.

Michael stumbled upon this matched pair on a morning walk, and never again did he spy such a fortuitous tableau.

Not every splash of color in San Miguel comes draped in joy. Inequality lingers here, as in so many places, and sometimes a struggle for a few extra pesos becomes, through the camera’s lens, a picture of unexpected beauty.

And yet, even when color arises from struggle, it reminds you that in Mexico, beauty refuses to be hidden.

And that same spirit finds one of its truest expressions at the table, where food itself becomes a canvas.

Tell me, darling, is this chilaquiles on my plate… or a canvas by Rothko?

Mexico cannot keep its colors locked up in stone and canvas alone. No, they spill into the streets in festivals that seem to happen with scandalous frequency.

Take this little procession, for example, parading almost beneath Brent and Michael’s very window.

And those towering papier-mâché figures? They are called mojigangas — which, I assure you, is difficult enough to pronounce sober, and nearly impossible after two tequilas.

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As you can see, my darlings, Mexicans do not cower before death the way so many gringos do. So banish from your mind those dreary cemeteries of gray stones and bashful lilies.

Here, even death has the decency to dress in color.

The dearly departed are swathed in marigolds, sunflowers, orchids, and a confetti of balloons. Trinkets, sweets, and tiny toys jostle for attention, as if the afterlife itself were throwing a fiesta and invited the entire city.

Speaking of things coming to an end, the day is slipping away — but our time is not yet over.

First, back home for a quick siesta and a shower. For Michael, of course. I am waterproof, though not that waterproof.

Then we’ll enjoy the magic of San Miguel at night.

But not before enjoying a sunset that is quintessentially San Miguel — colorful, dramatic, and unforgettable.

Michael and Brent, on their way to meet friends for dinner, stroll once more through San Miguel, only now cloaked in darkness.

Their route takes them along Del Pueblito, one of the city’s prettiest calles, quiet and timeless under the night sky.

Next, they stroll down one of Centro’s strangely empty tourist streets, bathed in the warm, golden glow of lamplight — a rare moment of serenity that El Divo relishes, as if the city itself has paused just to let him admire its quiet elegance.

Finally, they pass the Jardin, where three vendors linger beneath the laurel trees, waiting for some unsuspecting tourist to snap up a caballero hat, a woven bracelet, or a child’s toy.

One can almost hear El Divo tutting at the predictable choices of the travelers — though really, who is he to judge, knowing how often he happily hums along to the cheesiest Italian pop songs?

At last, they arrive, wrapped in the warm embrace of their friends. Ah, my darlings, what could possibly surpass a moment so exquisite, so utterly, deliciously perfect?

Perhaps there is one thing more.

A leisurely ascent to El Mirador, where they can gaze down upon San Miguel, sparkling like a treasure under the spell of a gorgeous Mexican night.

Until next time, mis amores.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

When I was seventeen and living in suburban Denver, Colorado, I saw Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Over the following thirty years, I must have seen the movie a dozen more times. And each time, I had the same thought:

I want to have an adventure in the jungle! I want to explore ancient ruins like Indiana Jones!

Alas, living in the U.S., that seemed highly unlikely, and my Indiana dreams slowly faded.

Then two years ago, Brent and I decided to visit Cambodia.

And those teenage dreams finally came true as I explored the incredible ruins of Angkor Wat.

Angkor Wat at Dawn

Built in the 12th century by King Suryavarman, Cambodia’s most famous temple is aligned so that on the spring and fall equinoxes, the sun rises directly behind the highest tower.

The most coveted moment at Angkor Wat is watching the sunrise behind the five towers of the main temple, each representing a peak of Mount Meru, the mythical home of the Hindu gods.

The morning I went, there were only a few hundred people in the entire complex, making it possible to almost feel what it was like when King Suryavarman watched the same sunrise.

The experience was unforgettable.

Suryavarman and his priests studied the heavens, watching the stars trace their endless trek across the night sky. Like humans all across the world, they tried to divine mystical meaning in what they saw.

What meaning did they find? No one knows for sure, but for me, the meaning was found simply in being in such an extraordinary place.

The Many Mysterious Faces of Bayon Temple

So many amazing sights fill Angkor Wat that it’s hard to choose my favorite.

But Bayon Temple is at the top of my list.

Bayon, built fifty years after Angkor Wat, is most famous for its more than 200 serene faces gazing out from its towers.

Scholars believe the image may be a religious figure named Avalokiteshvara, King Jayavarman VII, or a blend of both.

Bayon’s maze-like corridors are also filled with intricate bas-reliefs of battles, religious ceremonies, and daily life, combining Buddhist and Hindu elements.

I found them endlessly fascinating to study.

But more than two years later, it is those serene faces I see when I close my eyes and think of Bayon Temple.

Ta Prohm — Where Indiana Jones Comes to Life

Welcome to my other favorite temple — Ta Prohm.

Built in the 12th century by King Jayavarman VII, Ta Prohm served as a monastery and center of learning dedicated to the king’s mother.

Wandering through Ta Prohm was where my Indiana Jones fantasy most came to life.

I clambered over fallen stones, stared at towering strangler figs blotting out the sun, and stood in ruins that felt like half-jungle, half-sacred space.

As I looked around, I felt certain that if only I picked the right doorway, I’d discover a lost vault filled with the gold, silver, rubies, and sapphires that the kings of Angkor Wat coveted.

Why is Ta Prohm in such a state of elegant decay?

Because it was built without mortar, and after the Khmer Empire fell in the 15th century, the jungle swiftly encroached on the abandoned buildings.

Ever so patiently, the strangler figs worked their way into gaps, prying the buildings apart and knocking them to the ground.

Unlike many other temples, which have been painstakingly reconstructed, Ta Prohm has largely been left as it was found. (Which is why Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, starring Angelina Jolie, was partly filmed here.)

And that’s where the magic lies — in seeing these ruins as they were before being “rediscovered” in 1860 for the West by Henri Mouhot, France’s own Indiana Jones.

Or Côte d'Azure Rousseau, if you’d like.

Terrace of the Leper King

This intricately decorated terrace gets its name from a moss-covered statue thought to resemble a leper, though it likely represents Yama, the Hindu god of death.

Or perhaps it’s a Khmer king. There’s no way to know.

Behind the outer wall, archaeologists discovered a hidden inner wall decorated with detailed carvings of nagas, garudas, yaksas, apsaras, and devatas.

The imagery depicts the underworld below and spiritual beings rising toward the light.

A fine-grained yellow/grey sandstone was used for the carvings, which made it possible to carve so much detail into the stone.

But where did that sandstone come from?

From the Kulen Mountains, which lie up to forty kilometers from Angkor Wat.

Quarrying and transporting the stone to the temple sites required entire communities devoted to doing nothing but quarrying and moving the stone.

And elephants. Lots and lots of elephants!

Those elephants dragged the stone down from the mountains to canals dug by hand and then filled with water.

Once the blocks of stone were floated to Angkor Wat, elephants — and possibly people — were used to transport the sandstone to the construction sites.

There the scenes of Angkor Wat came to life in stone.

Koh Ker — Before There Was Angkor Wat

Located 120 kilometers from Angkor Wat, Koh Ker predates it by two centuries and briefly served as the Khmer Empire’s capital.

Today, Koh Ker feels remote and rarely visited, with most of its 100+ structures still hidden by jungle and not open to tourists.

We only know of their existence thanks to aerial surveys and ground-penetrating radar, which reveals temples hidden to the naked eye.

Highlights include Prasat Pram, where strangler figs engulf the ruins, and Prasat Prang, a 36-meter (118-foot) seven-tiered pyramid that towers above the forest.

And from the top of Prasat Prang, we saw nothing but jungle stretching away in every direction.

The town of Siem Reap was a two-and-a-half-hour drive away over bumpy roads, and the city of Battambang was another two and a half hours from there.

For the first time, I truly grasped just how far from everything we were.

No, I hadn’t retrieved any golden idols or run from a giant stone rock.

But I had still come pretty damn close to feeling like Indiana Jones.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

I know what you’re thinking: El Divo, last month was Pride! Where in the name of Dorothy’s red ruby slippers was Michael’s sarcastic gay camera?

Por que are you asking me? You should query the fellow who writes this newsletter, as I am definitely not upper management.

Fear not, though, El Divo is back, and while I don’t have any Pride photos of me sitting imperiously upon a float — the only way I sit, of course — this month, I do have something else for you that floats.

Boats. Lots and lots of boats.

Yes, Michael’s fancy has been captured by the Port Townsend Boatyard, where all sorts of floaty contraptions school together like delicious anchovies waiting to be netted by a hunky Italian fisherman named Niccolò who turns his gaze upon you and…

Mi scusi. It’s been a while since El Divo has had male companionship.

I am Michael’s gay camera, remember?

Anyway, let us not dwell on that and instead focus on the boatyard, where one will find schooners, trawlers, yachts, ferries, sailboats, and all manner of maritime contraptions.

There’s even a boat with connections to pirates, which I shall get to in a bit.

Why the Port Townsend Boatyard, you might ask?

Well, mi dolce companions, Port Townsend, situated on the Olympic Peninsula and overlooking Puget Sound, is where Brent and Michael reside during their yearly visits back to the U.S. and they were just there, so naturally Michael had to take pictures.

True, Port Townsend is no Portofino, Positano, or Polignano a Mare. Then again, few places are because, well, Italy.

But Port Townsend is a charming port town with lovely Victorian buildings and a rich maritime history dating back to the 19th century.

Port Townsend is also known as a hub for wooden boat enthusiasts and is home to the second-largest wooden boat festival in the world.

And at the Northwest Maritime Center, people can even learn the time-honored craft of building a boat. There, one can imagine a shirtless, hairy-chested Niccolò vigorously sanding away while—

Perdono, El Divo allowed himself to become distracted once more.

In this era of cheap disposable goods, El Divo is genuinely impressed by Port Townsend’s devotion to passing on its nautical heritage. Of course, Michael went crazy taking photos at the Maritime Center — and even more so at the boatyard.

However, the boats at the boatyard do not float in the water.

No, most of these boats aren’t even in the water.

Instead, they are in dry dock, having been hoisted land-ho using a boat sling.

The technical term for the sling is a Marine Travel Lift, and the one at Port Townsend can raise a boat weighing up to 330 tons and 150 feet in length.

Mama Mia! as they say in Italy. (I jest, of course. That only happens in bad American movies.)

Once a boat is lifted out of the water, it’s placed on keel blocks: pieces of wood or concrete on which the keel of the boat rests so it doesn’t tip over.

Sort of like a drag queen perched on high heels.

Why are these boats hauled out of the water like tuna being scooped up to make a fresh ceviche with an avocado vinaigrette paired with a crisp Riesling that Niccolò lovingly—

Dear, dear, dear. This is becoming a problem.

The boats aren’t in the water, dear companions, because boat ownership requires much maintenance to stay looking ship-shape. Work that cannot be done while sailing the seven seas.

The hull must undergo high-pressure washing to strip away barnacles, algae, rust, and any other unpleasant corrosion. Basically, it’s a chemical peel for boats.

Then the hull is repainted and patched, and some other nautical necessities happen, like deck-swabbing, varnishing, and tightening the petards until someone screams “ahoy!”

Okay, fine. El Divo confesses they don’t know what a “petard” is and made up that last bit.

So the boat is basically getting a makeover leaving it “refreshed” and ready to sail the high seas once more.

Or, to put it in terms much of this readership will relate to: the boatyard is what happens when a luxury day spa rendezvous with a gym and a discreet, highly skilled plastic surgeon. There is exfoliation. There is heavy lifting. And, eventually, there is transformation — if not rebirth, then at least a well-buffed illusion of youth.

Some boats need a bit more rebirth than others.

Naturally, Michael had to take pictures of every single boat.

I should probably cut the poor fellow a little slack for going so picture-crazy. I must admit there is something special about seeing these boats removed from their natural element.

The hulls with their graceful curves, the way their keels taper to such narrow points.

It is rather heroic.

After all, these boats are brave enough to challenge the oceans, which are among the most powerful forces on Earth.

Aside from El Divo, of course.

And when a boat is illuminated by the golden hour and ends up looking like something out of a painting?

Well, that’s a little bit of magic, no?

There is also a vulnerability to these boats, which arrive battered and beaten down by the elements, and put on display, with all their flaws in plain view of the world.

Imagine Michael, stripped naked, balanced on keel blocks, waiting for a power washing.

Actually, let’s not do that.

Let us instead picture the aforementioned Niccolò once more, posed like Michelangelo’s David in all his glory, gleaming as—

Heavens to bruschetta! El Divo must arrange a date pronto pesto!

El Divo admits he’s especially fond of Michael’s work with the boat’s reflection in the waters of Puget Sound.

Gentle companions, we are almost at the end of this missive. I know, I know! I promised you a pirate story.

Here is Michael’s pirate story — of sorts.

He’d been wandering around the boatyard snapping away as he is wont to do when a man in a truck pulled up next to him.

At first, Michael thought he might be trespassing and was about to get a scolding. Instead, the man asked what Michael knew about the Lady Washington, the boat he was currently photographing.

When Michael admitted he knew nothing, the fellow excitedly explained that the Lady Washington had had a minor guest part in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie as well as the movie Star Trek: Generations.

Michael, himself a Trekkie, was suitably impressed.

Yes, the Lady Washington is looking a little ragged at the moment.

Thankfully, she’s come to the right place and I feel certain in the skilled hands of Niccolo, she will be looking bellissimo in no time at all.

That’s all for now, mi amores! Until next time, I remain your devoted El Divo!

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of Bootle, England.

Most folks outside the UK haven’t. Honestly, I’d wager a fair number of people inside the UK haven’t either. It’s a small town on the edge of Liverpool, and it doesn’t have much to recommend it.

I only know Bootle because it was the only affordable Airbnb we could find during Brent’s Beatles pilgrimage to Liverpool.

When our Uber pulled up in front of our place, Brent and I exchanged a “What have we done?” look. The street was loud, the building old and gritty, and the entire area had the pre-gentrification feel of 1980s Brooklyn.

A little Googling revealed what my eyes had already guessed: Bootle, heavily bombed during WWII, was mostly passed over in the post-war redevelopment frenzy.

Funding went to better-off areas, leaving Bootle with a raw deal. The town now struggles with poverty and crime, and people here live, on average, twelve years less than residents of wealthier nearby neighborhoods.

A look at Reddit showed people who didn’t live in Bootle, didn’t have much nice to say about it.

If England had a “flyover country,” this would be in the heart of it.

And that’s a shame — not because it’s secretly brimming with culture or great food or stunning architecture. It isn’t.

But it has something else, something harder to find: a certain kind of quiet, human grace.

One of the first things I noticed was how people in Bootle talked to each other. Everywhere I went, I heard the word “love” — or, more accurately, “luv.”

Yes, Brits are known for using the word, though its usage is dropping. But Bootleians drop l-bombs the way the Roy family on Succession drops f-bombs. “Hello, luv,” “Have a good day, luv,” “Thanks for coming in, luv.” Even the burly security guard who stopped us from entering a closed shop did it kindly: “Sorry, luv. Closed for the day.”

Yes, in Bootle, even men use the word “luv” with other men.

It might’ve been jarring to my American ears, but honestly, it was… well, luvly.

The social and commercial heart of Bootle is a tired little mall called the Strand.

Despite a recent facelift, much of it looks worn out — like the pensioners waiting at the nearby train station. The shops inside reflect Bootle’s economic reality: discount stores like Poundland and Iceland, a vape shop called Kaboom, Hairlucinations (yes, really), and the ever-present Ladbrokes betting office.

Then there were the empty storefronts, looming like ghosts of the businesses that had died but had yet to pass on to the next life.

And if the name “Bootle” does ring any bells, it might be because of the Strand. In 1993, it was the site of one of the most shocking crimes in UK history: the abduction and murder of two-year-old James Bulger by two ten-year-old boys. That story clings to the place like soot in the corners of a window.

So no, I can’t recommend you go out of your way to visit Bootle.

But I am glad we did. Because it was there, in that unremarkable mall, that I witnessed one of the most touching acts of community I’ve seen in eight years of nomading.

It happened at The Coffeehouse, a small UK café chain. I went there most mornings to work, and over time, I began to notice the regulars: moms with prams taking a breather, elderly couples on autopilot with tea and jam-slathered muffins, disheveled women with curlers, groups of teens absorbed in their phones.

It wasn’t diverse by any stretch — Bootle is very white and very working-class — but it had the quiet rhythm of a place where people knew each other’s routines.

And then there was Iris.

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I heard Iris before I saw her.

“I’M NOT LATE TODAY, AM I?” she bellowed, entering. “DON’T WORRY. I’M HERE NOW!”

Loud, staccato speech, thrown like a punch. At first, I thought she was mad at the barista, maybe, or another customer. But no one else seemed alarmed.

“IS MY TABLE FREE? I HOPE SO. ”

No one else paid her much mind, so I returned to work, figuring the commotion was over.

But the next day, same time, same volume: “HI JACKIE! LOOK WHAT I BROUGHT! ISN’T SHE PRETTY?”

Iris held up a doll, beaming. The barista smiled. “She’s beautiful, luv.”

That was my first proper look at Iris. Late fifties or early sixties, short auburn hair held back by a headband, big black glasses, jangly jewelry, and a trolley cart decorated with Pokémon keychains. Her outfit was neat but simple — slacks, blouse, sensible shoes — but the accessories added flair.

Her voice, though, was relentless. Atonal, loud, and impossible to ignore.

It didn’t take long to realize she was probably autistic. And that her shouting wasn’t aggression — it was just how she spoke.

Usually, someone would join her: a barista, sometimes another customer. The pattern was always the same. They spoke normally; Iris replied at full volume. “YES, I DID.” “THAT’S GOOD TO HEAR.” “THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”

I like to think I’m a decent person, so I didn’t object to Iris’s presence, despite how her voice grated — and it really did. However, I needed to work, so I started wearing earbuds. They didn’t block her out entirely, but they helped.

Then one morning, a woman sat at the table next to me — the first person I saw visibly bothered by Iris. Loud sighs, annoyed glances, escalating frustration.

Finally, she snapped: “Please stop shouting! It’s awful!”

Iris froze. The café fell silent. A barista knelt beside her and whispered something. Then Iris called out, “I’M SORRY!”

Another customer leaned toward the upset woman and said, gently, “That’s Iris, luv. She comes every day. She can’t help the way she talks.”

The woman frowned, apparently unsure what to do with the new information. Iris’s volume of speech was probably hard for her to control. That didn’t make it any easier to listen to. Finally, the woman said, “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. It’s just… so unpleasant.”

“I know, luv,” the other woman replied. “But we all have to get along, don’t we?”

When the frazzled woman left a little later, she stopped by Iris’s table and said something I couldn’t hear. I’m guessing it was an apology.

The kindness in that coffee shop moved me more than I expected. No one lashed out. No one shamed anyone. There was grace for everyone — Iris, the annoyed woman, the coffee shop’s staff. It was quietly extraordinary.

Later, I mentioned it to the barista.

“That happens now and again, luv,” she said. “Most folks here know Iris, but not everyone.”

“She’s here often?”

“Every day. Lives on her own. She started coming in four years ago. Now we give her free coffee, and everyone chats with her. She loves folding the napkins for the tables and does it perfectly. She’s very sweet. She brings me gifts for my little girl. Never says a bad word about anyone. And you know, folks around here — we know what it’s like to be looked down on. So we make sure she’s treated well.”

That stuck with me.

“Is there anything else?” the barista asked.

“No,” I said, handing over a ten-pound note.

She gave me my change and said, “Have a good day, luv.”

I smiled.

Bootle doesn’t have much — not in the way travel guides measure things.

But I’ve rarely seen a place with more heart.

I’ve been thinking about the kindness I saw there a lot lately. The world doesn’t exactly reward patience or empathy these days. And yet, here was this little town showing us how it’s done.

Maybe the first step is small. Maybe it’s just saying “luv” a little more often.

I’ll start.

Thanks for reading. Have a great day, luv.

Note: I didn’t use Iris’s real name.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Greetings and salutations. It is I, El Divo.

I have returned.

Of course, I have.

Did you see how many likes the first newsletter I narrated got? Almost eighty. That’s way more than that dragon in Bangkok got. I even bested Jane Austen, which is no mean feat given how many movie adaptations of her books there have been.

As they say in the business, a star is born.

Speaking of Miss Austen, I’m partial to the version of Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley because, let’s be honest, the glamorous and sublime Ms. Knightley and I have much in common.

But enough about me.

It’s time to talk about this month’s Michael Takes Too Many Pictures newsletter, which has a touch of serendipity about it.

That’s because Michael, bless his baseball cap, recently blundered into a spectacular display of cherry blossoms in Seattle.

No, he didn’t plan for it.

He merely returned to Seattle for a visit with family and friends, nary any idea that it was cherry blossom season, only to stumble straight into a fantasy of pale pinks, soft whites, and endless confetti showers of floral bliss.

Perhaps that’s a bit over the top, but the cherry blossoms were truly spectacular.

Naturally, once Michael realized his good fortune, he dragged me all over Seattle trying to photograph every cherry tree.

I can’t tell you how many times we stood in the middle of a street, Michael obliviously trying to frame the perfect shot and me praying to the Android gods that I didn’t end up cracked and broken in the grill of an SUV.

I’ll say this for my boy: he is dedicated to his craft.

On to our phototour!

Let’s start with the legendary Yoshino cherry trees of the Quad, short for the Liberal Arts Quadrangle, on the University of Washington campus.

The UW’s trees were most likely planted in a nearby botanical garden in the 1930s and then moved to the UW campus in the 1960s. This puts them in their nineties, old but still vibrant and glorious.

Basically, they are the Rita Moreno, Carol Burnett, and Jane Fonda of cherry blossom trees.

The trees blossom between mid-March and early April, attracting hordes of Instagram influencers seeking validation through likes, comments, and eggplant emojis.

Thankfully, El Divo cares naught about that. Michael, on the other hand…

The cherry blossoms didn’t only attract Instagram influencers.

Families posed for family portraits, UW athletic teams posed for yearbook photos, and a drag queen looked fabulous as she struck a pose.

And then there was Michael demonstrating his enthusiasm for … something. The crowds? His brother-in-law’s awesome shirt?

Cherry blossoms, or sakura if we’re being properly reverent, are Japan’s gift to the concept of fleeting beauty.

The Japanese even have a word for the practice of sitting beneath the blossoms and contemplating their transient nature: hanami.

I tried to share this concept with Michael, but all he said was, “You mean just sitting there and not taking any photos? ARE YOU CRAZY?”

Someone here is crazy.

Did you know the famous cherry trees that stand along the Potomac River in Washington, D.C., first arrived in Seattle?

They arrived as saplings on board a ship from Tokyo to the Emerald City — the closest major U.S. port to Japan — then put into rail cars and sent to D.C. in 1912 as a flowering envoy from Japan to the United States.

Here at Michael Takes Too Many Pictures, we provide gorgeous photos and snarky commentary and actual education!

Here’s a bit more cherry blossom history for you.

In 1885, Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, a very unusual woman, proposed planting trees in Washington, D.C.

She was an accomplished journalist who became the first woman to sit on the governing board of the National Geographic Society. As a travel writer, Eliza ventured into the Alaska Territory and became one of the first tourists to visit Glacier Bay.

El Divo might not want Ms. Scidmore to adjust his aperture, if you get my drift, but he knows a badass woman when he sees one.

The iconoclastic Ms. Scidmore also visited Java, China, India, and Japan, where she fell in love with the cherry blossom trees.

Upon returning to the U.S., she approached the U.S. Army Superintendent of the Office of Public Buildings and Grounds with the suggestion to plant cherry trees along the Potomac.

He said "Neanche morto," which means “over my dead body,” as we say back in Italy. Every new superintendent for the next 24 years also told Ms. Scidmore to take a hike. It wasn’t until she wrote to First Lady Helen Taft in 1909 that the idea finally took root.

Thanks to Ms. Scidmore's vision, cherry trees bloomed in D.C. three years later.

El Divo has nothing but admiration for that kind of determination.

I’m not going to state definitively that the very unconventional Ms. Scidmore, incorrectly identified by the National Park Service as Mrs. Scidmore, was a lesbian.

But if it looks like a cherry blossom tree and blooms like a cherry blossom tree, then it’s probably a lesbian, er, cherry blossom tree.

Poor Seattle had to wait almost twenty more years to get its own cherry trees. But the wait was worth it, as in 1930, Japan sent four thousand flowering trees to the city.

Another 95 years passed before Michael spent a week taking the most spectacular photos of Seattle’s cherry trees ever recorded.

(Note: Michael said he would trade me in for the latest iPhone if I didn't say this. I assume it was an idle threat, but it's best not to take chances when dealing with an ego of this proportion.)

Here’s another interesting cherry blossom fact to impress your friends: The petals are edible and taste like a delicate blend of rose, cherry, and green tea.

The flavor is very subtle, much like El Divo himself.

The petals are sometimes pickled and used in sweets and teas. There’s also a cherry blossom Pepsi for sale in Japan, which I refuse to try because El Divo has standards.

The keen-eyed among you — mostly everyone but Michael — have likely noticed that cherry blossoms can be pink or white.

Some are a blushing pink like a debutante’s first flirtation on an episode of Bridgerton. Others arrive clad in an innocent white while hiding secrets, also like an episode of Bridgerton.

El Divo likes Bridgerton? Of course, he does. Have you not seen Jonathan Bailey? That man is finer than a perfectly cut piece of sashimi at the best Tokyo sushi bar.

Here’s the thing about cherry blossoms: they never stay. Indeed, their time is brief. That’s the point.

Mono no aware, the Japanese call it — an awareness of impermanence. The heartbreak of beauty that doesn’t last. Which is why Michael’s accidental timing was such a miracle. He showed up, and for a brief, glittering moment, everything aligned.

Serendipity.

And now the cherry blossom season is over.

But Michael and I were there. We saw the beauty and appreciated the mono no aware.

Well, at least I did. Michael was still taking pictures.

That’s okay, though — otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to share our moment of serendipity with you.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Today, visitors love Bath for many reasons: the Gothic Bath Abbey, the River Avon, and the gorgeous Georgian architecture clad in honey-colored limestone that gives the city its striking look.

Shall we take a walk through this lovely English town?

Yes? Awesome!

I’m afraid I’ll be your guide this time. No El Divo or imperious dragons, alas. But I have asked Miss Jane Austen — who spent much time here — to share some of her observations about Bath.

Now strap on your walking shoes, and let’s get going — I have a lot of pictures to take!

The River Avon

Every charming European town needs a river, and the River Avon is Bath’s. It lazily winds through this ancient city, offering serene waterside walks, charming bridges, and the occasional swan with attitude.

The river provides a lovely backdrop to much of the city. Its still waters reflect the beautiful Bath limestone adorning much of the town.

Don’t be fooled by the river’s placid presence. Devastating floods frequently ravaged the city before floodgates were installed in the 1970s.

But now the river is the perfect walking companion as you meander through the city.

💡 Miss Austen says: The River Avon, like any proper lady of good breeding, glides through Bath with an air of serene elegance — but pray, do not be deceived, for beneath her placid surface lie depths most unexpected, ready to catch the unwary.

Bath Abbey

One of the first things you see when arriving in the city is Bath Abbey, a Gothic masterpiece with soaring stained glass and intricate stonework.

The tower dates back to 1611, and while I am rather “churched” out after eight years of travel, I still recommend visiting it.

Although I mostly went for one reason…

No, not to scout my final resting place.

To climb up the bell tower to get this fantastic view of Bath!

💡 Miss Austen says: A visit to the Abbey shall elevate both one’s spirits and one’s heart rate, for the ascent to the tower is a trial worthy of the pious. But persevere! The reward is a view most pleasing and possibly a newfound appreciation for chairs.

The Roman Baths

As with churches, I have seen many ancient Roman ruins at this point in our travels. The Romans apparently traveled everywhere in Ancient Europe — togas must have been as common a sight as retired Americans in baseball caps are today.

So it wasn’t until my third visit that I ponied up the £24.50 (£27.00 on weekends) to tour the Roman Baths.

Was I disappointed?

Not in the least! It’s great!

The bathing complex has two levels, the top of which is decorated with various statues.

But don’t be deceived: the statues on the upper terrace don’t date back to the Roman era. They were added in 1894, although, interestingly, they include representations of ancient Roman generals, English statesmen, and other famous Victorians from that era.

The jade-green water of the main baths provided the perfect surface to reflect the Bath limestone. Yes, my photographer’s heart was singing!

The steaming, mineral-rich waters may look inviting, but don’t try to go for a swim, or you might find yourself fed to the lions. Okay, they’ll probably just politely ask you to leave, but still. Awkward!

The water for the baths comes from rainwater that seeps down through the limestone, where it is heated by geothermal activity to between 69°C and 96°C (156°F and 204°F) before rising again and reaching the baths, where it is typically around 45°C (113°F)

Be sure to save time for the museum and several recently excavated rooms, including this caldarium.

💡 Miss Austen says: I recently learned that the Romans did not bathe alone but with all their acquaintances, as well as slaves, to tend to them — a most shocking notion to modern sensibilities!

Pulteney Bridge

Did you know that Pulteney Bridge is one of only four bridges in the world lined with shops throughout its length?

Okay, that wasn’t the most riveting bit of trivia. But that tracks because even though it’s often listed as one of Bath’s better attractions, I wasn’t impressed by ye olde Pulteney Bridge. However, I did get a nice cup of coffee and bun at a coffee shop on the bridge.

That said, it was pretty enough, with the right angle and lighting.

💡Miss Austen says: Unlike our erstwhile guide, don’t partake of refreshments upon the bridge itself. Utilize it to cross the lovely Avon and then patronize an establishment less likely to fleece one like sheep upon the hillside.

The Royal Crescent

The minute I saw a photo of the Royal Crescent's magnificent sweep, I knew I had to see it. And by “see” it, I mean photograph it!

Look at how gorgeous that curved front is!

The Royal Crescent is one of Bath’s most iconic buildings. It is a masterpiece of Georgian architecture, designed by John Wood the Younger and built between 1767 and 1775.

The Royal Crescent features a striking, sweeping curve of 30 terraced houses fronted with Bath limestone.

Here’s a fun fact: Despite the Royal Crescent's uniform appearance, each apartment’s interior is unique, and the different floorplans reflect the preferences of the original owners.

To get a peek at what it was like to live here, visit No. 1 Royal Crescent. Step back in time and wonder how anyone survived without Wi-Fi.

No, seriously! We all used to live that way!

💡Miss Austen says: Such ostentatious displays of wealth are rather unbecoming. Though, I will confess, should someone offer me a residence here, I would not decline.

The Circus

The Circus in Bath, England, was built between 1754 and 1768. It was designed by John Wood the Elder — yup, John Wood the Younger’s dad. Don’t ask me why John Wood the Elder didn’t simply name his kid John Wood, Jr., which would’ve been much less confusing.

Convinced that Bath had once been a hotbed of Druid activity, Wood designed the Circus to mimic the diameter of nearby Stonehenge. The Circus forms a complete circle, broken only in three places by roads leading into the center.

Wood was also a fan of the Italian architect Andrea Palladio and used Palladian design to draw up his plans. I guess all the Roman ruins already lying around Bath weren’t enough Italian stuff for Mr. Wood.

Wood originally planned to place a grand obelisk to stand in the middle, reinforcing his belief in sacred geometry. However, the obelisk was never built, and over time, trees were planted instead.

The trees are cool but, well, kinda ruin the visual impact of the Circus.

💡 Miss Austen says: One might suppose that Mr. Wood wished to remind us that life is a circle. Personally, I think it's more like a triangle, often between romantic parties too foolish for their own good. Myself excepted, of course!

Bath is Fake!

Now is as good a time as any to tell you Bath’s dirty little secret — the city’s a fake!

Okay, it’s not exactly fake, but Bath’s elegant look is definitely a cheat! Beneath all of that honey-colored limestone lies either a medieval city covered up or newer construction that looks far less impressive from behind.

In the 18th century, developers wanted a city of elegance without overspending, so they added grand limestone facades to the front while using cheaper materials for the backs and interiors.

So when you admire the grandeur of the Royal Crescent or the Circus, just remember: you’re mostly looking at a well-dressed illusion. It’s pretty much the architectural equivalent of a very nice suit hiding a ratty tracksuit underneath.

💡 Miss Austen says: Nowhere is the genius of British society more evident than in Bath, where even the humblest dwelling may present a face of fine limestone, while behind it lurks something far less refined. It is a principle much admired among the gentry — so long as appearances are preserved, who would trouble themselves with what lies behind?

Bath Skyline Walk

Brent and I like few things more than getting out and walking. And when that walk is filled with trees bursting with autumn color and views of a lovely British town?

Brilliant!

For those who like their history with a side of fresh air, this National Trust trail offers sweeping views of Bath and the rolling countryside.

The entire walk is 6 miles (9.6 km) long and takes 3.5 to 4 hours, which is perfect on a crisp fall morning.

You’ll pass through woodlands, the University of Bath, and sheep grazing, harkening back to Bath’s day as a center of the wool trade.

A little exertion is required, but the payoff is pure Jane Austen novel territory—minus a brooding Hugh Grant with his tousled hair.

💡Miss Austen says: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a strong constitution thrives on a good long walk — nowhere better than the Bath Skyline, where fresh air and fine views uplift the soul. Even in the rain, one gains either the virtue of exercise or fortitude — particularly when sliding gracefully down a muddy path.

Sham Castle

When doing the Bath Skyline Walk, keep your eyes peeled for one of the stranger things you’ll encounter — a fake castle!

It’s not really a castle. It’s a type of “folly,” which, in this case, means a rich dude had more money than was good for him. The dude in question is Ralph Allen, who had the castle built in 1762 to improve his view because, you know, rich people.

💡 Miss Austen’s Special Tip: There is no sight more off-putting than a gentleman with too much wealth and too little occupation, for he will invariably set about building something utterly unnecessary. Thus stands Sham Castle — a monument less to defense than to the enduring truth that boys with toys do not grow up, they merely acquire more immense playthings.

The Kennet & Avon Canal

One of the delights of travel is discovering something you have never heard of but that you absolutely fall in love with.

That perfectly describes this wonderful waterway Brent and I stumbled upon while perambulating around Bath. (Uh oh — I’m starting to sound like Miss Austen myself.)

That 87-mile-long canal, constructed between 1718 and 1810, has 105 locks and links London with Bristol.

The canal fell into disrepair after the railroads appeared. Thankfully, many years later, volunteers realized the hidden gem in their midst and restored it.

It’s now very popular with cyclists and boaters. The canal is filled with colorful narrowboats, which you can rent and sail along its length.

💡 Miss Austen says: A stroll along the canal is most agreeable, but beware! The temptation to abandon city life and take up residence in a narrowboat is strong, though one suspects the reality is less romantic than the notion.

That’s it for this month’s issue of Michael Takes Too Many Pictures!

If you enjoyed it, please share it with a friend. Or an enemy! I’m desperate and not picky.

Next month: The return of El Divo!

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

Yes, you’re coming along on another one of Michael’s photographic journeys, but no, Michael will not be your guide. I shall be! And I’m much more entertaining than the silly dragon who dragged you around Bangkok.

Who am I, exactly? I am Michael’s Pixel 9 XL Pro — the Dom Pérignon of cameras, the Meryl Streep of megapixels.

I’m also the one who actually does all the work taking these photos he’s so proud of. Naturally, I get none of the praise.

Whatever. I don’t really care. I am about the work.

My name? I have many. You, however, may call me “El Divo.”

Today, you shall accompany me as we visit the jewel of Italy’s Ligurian coast, the Cinque Terre.

Ah, Cinque Terre! You are bellissimo! Magnifico! Beyond compare, even when overrun by the sweaty hordes Rick Steves unleashed upon your pastel-painted villas.

Five breathtakingly picturesque villages clinging to the rugged Italian coastline, dripping with charm and history — and gelato dropped by screaming brats with no business being here.

It's a paradise for any serious photographer with a good eye and a modicum of talent.

Sadly, I find myself in the hands of this hack named Michael Jensen, a guy dressed like a tourist dad on laundry day. A guy who wouldn’t know an f-stop from a bus stop.

Never mind — let us begin!

Vernazza – Sunrise, Umbrellas, and an Overcaffeinated Photographer

Did you know Michael is an early bird? Well, he is. And he dragged my ass out of bed before the crack of dawn to take pictures.

Sigh.

Look at him with that striped shirt and baseball cap. He’s where fashion and style go to die.

We begin in Vernazza, which — fun fact! — dates back to at least 1080 AD and was once a key naval base for the Republic of Genoa.

Okay, the view here is pretty cool, even if the only sunrise I want to see involves tequila.

Together, we walk back down to where the colorful umbrellas dotting the harbor create a picturesque scene that even I, Michael’s long-suffering camera, admit is lovely.

But Michael? He’s in a frenzy.

“Golden hour, golden hour!” he chants, leaping about, snapping shots of every fishing boat, every seagull, every glistening wave.

Seriously, it gets as old as all the Superman reboots.

Michael is finally ready to move on, and it’s a good thing because my shutter button is about spent — and I don’t mean that in a fun way.

Monterosso al Mare – The Ed Sheeran of the Cinque Terre

Next, we traipse to Monterosso, the largest of the five towns and the only one with a proper beach.

It's also home to Il Gigante, a crumbling 14-meter statue of Neptune attached to Villa Pastine. Il Gigante looks like he’s suffering a horrible existential crisis, no?

Honestly, same. Is this all life has for me? Being lugged around the world by, well, this big lug?

Michael, amped up on three espressos and two chocolate croissants, has no idea what I feel as he races around, trying to find the perfect picture that “captures” Monterosso.

Yes, there are some plazas with those pastel-colored buildings.

Honestly, though, Monterosso is the least interesting village of the five.

It’s the Ed Sheeran of the Cinque Terre — sure, he’s a great singer/songwriter, but he’s got none of the panache of Elton John, Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, or Boy George. Where are the bright colors? The dramatic vistas? Unforgettable seascapes?

Really, the best thing about Monterosso is the lovely beach, something none of the other villages have.

Farewell, Monterosso. We’re off to Corniglia.

Corniglia – Up, up, up!

We hop on the train and arrive at Corniglia, the only Cinque Terre town without direct sea access.

The smallest of the Cinque Terre villages sits 100 meters above the water, and there are only two ways to reach it — a shuttle with a long line of people.

Or 382 steps.

Michael insists on climbing them because: “We don’t have a minute to waste!”

He’s rather stressed because it looks like some weather is headed our way. Michael can be very neurotic about the weather. Heaven forbid if our little Prince of Pictures doesn’t have perfect lighting all day.

The name Corniglia likely comes from a Roman family that once owned vineyards here.

Alas, the rain does roll in, and thankfully, Michael decides to seek shelter. I am water resistant, but I appreciate that he doesn’t push it.

On the other hand, it’s less out of concern for my feelings than his worrying about squeezing every precious photo out of me possible.

Michael glumly sips his sixth espresso, waiting for the rain to let up, when a man walks by with a colorful umbrella.

My erstwhile owner squeals like a Swiftie attending her first concert and leaps to his feet, snapping away like a madman. “It’s like something from a classic Italian film!”

To be fair, the picture he gets isn’t half bad.

Then we are off again. As if apologizing for not giving us more to work with, the skies clear as we leave, and Corniglia sends off with a gorgeous final photo.

Riomaggiore: Rhymes with Chicken Cacciatore

Geographically, Manarola is the next village, but we skip it for now. Michael has already scouted the villages and decided Manarola will have the best sunset.

Instead, we head for Riomaggiore, whose name comes from Rivus Maior — the river that once ran through it.

Michael decides our journey needs a musically-themed soundtrack and starts singing the most Italian thing he can think of — “That’s Amore” — belting out the line “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!” over and over again.

I seriously cannot believe thousands of you subscribe to a newsletter written by this ham.

Anyway, Riogmaggiore is the steepest of the five villages, with vineyards clinging to the sides like mountain goats to Italian Alps.

The view as we hike is spectacular, but does Michael take a moment to soak it in? Of course not. He’s too busy photographing every grape leaf, every trellis, and every damn rock that catches his eye.

Riomaggiore comes into view — and it’s a long way down. If Michael drops me trying to get this shot, I swear I will return from the great recycling bin and haunt him to oblivion.

Michael hurries down the steps, terrified we won’t return to Manarola before sunset. Well, we definitely won’t make it back in time if the fool breaks his neck.

Soon we enter Riomaggiore and it’s lovely.

The pastel buildings tumble to the sea like a box of overturned macaroons. Michael gasps, “The colors!” like a toddler seeing fireworks for the first time.

Meanwhile, a group of attractive Italian men dive into the water, their sun-kissed bodies glistening. I take them in, gauging the composition, the lighting, the abs.

“Am I a gay camera?” you ask. Are you only figuring that out now?

Speaking of which, I Am a Camera is the Broadway play adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 novel Goodbye to Berlin, which was also later turned into a musical, the Broadway hit Cabaret, which was adapted again into the 1972 film starring Liza Minelli in her Oscar-winning role as Sally Bowles.

I’m not just a gay camera — I am a gay camera.

Anyway, Michael? He’s too busy documenting the fiftieth laundry line of the day to pay more attention to the hotties right in front of him.

What is it with Americans and taking pictures of drying laundry anyway? If I didn’t know better, I’d assume Americans think Italy’s main attraction is being the world’s largest outdoor laundromat.

Manarola – The Perfect Shot

Frantic, Michael hurries on, terrified we’ll miss the sunset in Manarola.

We race up the steep stairs, then down again, until we catch our first glimpse of Manarola, possibly the oldest of the five villages.

“This is it,” Michael whispers, awed. “The perfect shot.” As if we haven’t taken four hundred already.

Manarola was founded in the 12th century, and its name may have been derived from Manium Arula, which means “small temple of the dead.” Either that or “big wheel,” which seems pretty confusing

You’d think linguists would’ve figured that out by now, but Italy has a lot of history to sort out.

Regardless of the name, this place is a riot of color, all pastel buildings stacked precariously on cliffs.

I want to linger on the image, imagining myself with, oh, Zendaya maybe, doing the American-romantic-comedy-set-in-Italy thing. Not Lost in Tuscany but…Confused in the Cinque Terre?

Okay, the name needs work.

Anyway, she’s an accident-prone expat who buys a crumbling hotel here and welcomes a curmudgeonly American tourist played by one of the hotties from Challengers — and promptly proceeds to melt his heart.

Okay, the plot needs work too.

Meanwhile, Michael is scurrying around like a demented crab, taking close-ups of — what? A boat that was probably literally put there for people to photograph!

The golden hour is approaching, and Michael is apoplectic, trying to get every shot. To be fair, the golden hour glow really does work its magic.

I’ll allow it.

As the sun disappears behind the cliffs, I begrudgingly admit that Michael captures magic through me — even if he really does take too many pictures.

Night falls swiftly as the moon climbs over the horizon, and the lights of Manarola flicker to life, making everything more magical.

Once again, Michael starts singing, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore,” but softly this time. Instead of being corny, it’s actually lovely.

He might be a badly dressed dork, but he’s my badly dressed dork.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.

You truly do not know who I am?

I am the Dragon of Yaowarat! Guardian of secrets, keeper of stories, and silent witness to centuries of transformation.

I see you’ve come to ask me to guide you through Bangkok's Chinatown — the colorful, chaotic, beating heart of Chinese Thailand.

You would do well to remember that Chinatown is no ordinary place — it is a vortex of chaos, mystery, and enchantment all swirling together throughout time.

Wouldn’t you prefer the glossy, sterile embrace of one of Bangkok’s glittering malls?

No? So be it. Then climb upon my back so we may be off!

Ah, but we have forgotten something. The price for my time. You didn’t think I did this for free, did you?

At the end of our trip, you shall answer my riddle. If you answer correctly, you may walk away.

If not, I know what I shall feast on tonight.

Here is your riddle.

Born of earth and kissed by sun,
A golden gem, home to one.
On snowy bed, with sweetness dressed,
Name me now, and pass the test.

I see you tremble in fear for your life, as you should. As a reward for your bravery, I give you this clue: You shall see the answer to my riddle on our journey.

Now we are off!

Let us begin where all roads converge: Yaowarat Road. This, many say, is the lifeblood of Bangkok’s Chinatown.

In your simple tongue, it is called the "Royal Road," a name gifted by King Rama V upon its grand unveiling in 1891. A fitting title, is it not, for a path so worthy of majesty?

But to those who truly understand its essence, it is also known as Dragon Road. Do you know why?

Some say it is because Yaowarat coils and twists through Chinatown like a dragon as mighty as myself.

But the reason is much more than that.

I roamed these lands long before King Rama V laid his plans for his grand boulevard. We dragons arrived with the Teochew Chinese, who crossed vast oceans to find a new home.

Remember this: Our spirit imbues everything here. To walk these streets is to walk among echoes of the past, where every stone, every alley, hums with untold stories.

Now, I shall show you a hallowed place where the wisdom and power of the dragon are known.

Hold on! Here we go!

Don’t be fooled by Wat Mangkon Kamalawat’s modest exterior. Trust me, the inside befits a dragon.

I don’t suppose you know what that name means, do you? Don’t look so nervous, for your life does not depend upon that answer. Well, probably not.

It means “Dragon Lotus Temple.”

Surely, you know the dragon is no ordinary beast. We are divine bearers of power, luck, and boundless courage. This temple gleams in red and gold, for these sacred hues, when united, summon the pinnacle of prosperity and fortune.

A fitting tribute to one such as I, wouldn’t you agree?

Next, we visit a place for what you humans most worship.

Welcome to bustling Sampeng Road! This is Chinatown’s underbelly, where men and women pray at the altar of money.

Look at how you crowd together! Look at how you barter and bargain over a few piddling baht!

I remember when rice paddies glinted here in the sun like emeralds. Now it’s nothing but your scooters going “brrrrrrrrrmmm” and fouling the air.

Thankfully, not all the scents here are of sweating humans and stinking scooters. Breathe deeply and savor the earthy whisper of turmeric, the sweet allure of cinnamon, and the fiery bite of peppers. A feast for the nose, is it not?

Your kind used to sell other delights here, for Sampeng Road was once known as “Sin Alley.” Opium and fleshly pleasures in brothels were bought and sold in this shadowy place.

Since you seem so interested in riches, I know where to take you next. Grab hold, for we will come face-to-face with Phra Phuttha Maha Suwanna Patimakon, Thailand’s most valuable treasure.

Wat Tramit was once a humble temple visited by only a few. Now, it is of great importance.

Any guesses why?

No, it is not these lovely golden bells. But it does have much to do with gold. Or should I say it has to do with “much gold?”

Humble yourself before Phra Phuttha Maha Suwanna Patimakon, known as the Golden Buddha to the insignificant likes of you.

The Golden Buddha stands ten feet tall and boasts a life of over 700 years — yes, even older than I. And before you ask, it is worth half a billion dollars in your tawdry currency.

What’s that? Hungry, are you? So am I! But I shall wait until tonight, keeping my hunger sharp for when your wits falter on my riddle.

Are you one of those fussy types who fear street food for its rumored Bangkok Belly? No? Ah, good! At least you’ve got some courage.

I’m sure you will find something to your liking here. But beware, for this food is often too spicy for the likes of you.

Be sure to have some mango sticky rice. If this is to be your last day on this earth, it should have at least a little sweetness to it.

You shall take the next part of your journey alone, for I have other matters that demand my attention. Seek the giant fig tree in Talat Noi. You will know it by the vivid colors wrapped around its trunk.

But a warning: do not even think of sneaking away to avoid my riddle. The mighty Dragon of Yaowarat sees all and will find you wherever you hide.

Ah, you have reached our sacred Bodhi tree. Tell me, wanderer, what do you make of it?

Do you know why the Bodhi tree is sacred to Buddhists? It is said that the Buddha meditated beneath one for 49 days to attain enlightenment.

I suspect it would take you much, much longer.

And what of the scraps of cloth tied around the tree? They honor the spirits dwelling within and serve as a warning to all who pass by: this tree is sacred and must not be harmed.

You now find yourself in Talat Noi, one of Bangkok’s oldest quarters.

Portuguese traders were the first to settle here when it became Bangkok’s first port. Since then, Talat Noi has embraced many peoples: Vietnamese, Khmer, and most notably, the Chinese.

Ah, you’ve spotted the abandoned car nearby. No doubt, like so many of your kind, you’ll feel compelled to immortalize it in a photograph. Humans and their peculiar fascinations.

It is known as the “Antique Turtle Car” and was once a shiny Fiat 500. No one knows who left it here, but its presence is fitting, for Talat Noi has long been associated with automobiles, especially by Chinese workers refurbishing old car parts.

That is why you will see huge piles of engines, carburetors, and more on the streets.

But car parts almost as old as me aren’t the only thing in Talat Noi.

This old man barters mangoes you might enjoy.

And here is a tribute to you mortals and your foolish belief in love.

Sweet but these young lovers will be dust while I am still young.

Chinatown teems with what you call “street art” — yet another fleeting attempt by you short-lived mortals to etch your presence upon a world that scarce remembers you when you’ve passed.

Our day is winding down, and I have something much more memorable to show you.

Behold Leng Buai Ia Shrine, the oldest Chinese temple in all of Thailand, standing proud since 1658.

Naturally, it is adorned with the mighty dragon, a fitting symbol of power and protection. Such figurines grace nearly every corner your eyes can find.

On the walls, on the columns…

On the roof…

And outside, a magnificent column with a dragon wrapped around it.

You should enter, but our time grows short. Climb aboard. Use our journey back to Yaowarat Road wisely, for you owe me an answer to my riddle.

Ah, we have returned.

Do not be deceived by the bustling chaos of this street. If you fail to answer my riddle, there will be no escape. I shall devour you — and your fellow mortals shall be unaware, seeing nothing but more bustle and glare.

Here is the riddle one more time.

Born of earth and kissed by sun,
A golden gem, home to one.
On snowy bed, with sweetness dressed,
Name me now, and pass the test.

All right, foolish mortal. I showed you the glorious heart of Chinese Bangkok, now you must pay the price.

Give me my answer, or your life will be forfeited!

Mango sticky rice? Are you sure? Good, because that is correct!

There is much the Dragon of Yaowarat didn’t show you today. For the answer to another riddle, I will give you another day.

No? You would rather explore on your own? Perhaps you are wiser than I thought.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.