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A wooden bridge gracefully stretches towards the serene sandy beach, framed by vibrant blooms and swaying palm trees under a clear blue sky. Before I ever went to Thailand, the images I saw fell into two very different camps.There were the beaches, impossibly blue water, long stretches of sand, hammocks doing their best work. And then there were the parties. Loud ones. Endless ones. Young ones. The kind that looked less like a holiday and more like an endurance sport. The contrast was hard to reconcile. Beautiful, yes. But also exhausting. Like many people during Covid, I passed the time by watching an impressive amount of travel content on YouTube. Thailand, in particular, seemed to be every creator’s dream destination. Sun drenched days, spicy food, scooters weaving through traffic, and a kind of bohemian abandon that apparently thrives in hostels. At somewhere north of forty, I can say with confidence that the hostel lifestyle no longer holds much appeal. What did catch my attention were the warnings that often came packaged alongside the glossy footage. Watch out for the parties. Be careful with the street food. Traffic is chaotic. Tuk tuk scams. Dengue zones. Malaria maps. Unsafe driving conditions. The list went on, and on, and on. And yet, I was still intrigued. What I didn’t see in all of that content were people who looked like me. Thought like me. Travelled the way I do now. Which raised a quieter, more unsettling question. If Thailand was so popular, where were the Gen X travellers? And how were they doing it without broadcasting it to the world? I wanted to go. I just had no idea where to start or whether Thailand would feel overwhelming at this stage of life. Why Thailand Sounds Overwhelming From the Outside I started researching Thailand the way I usually do. YouTube, guidebooks, and a general belief that if I just read enough, clarity would eventually emerge. Bangkok appeared to be a mega city on steroids. Floating markets looked fascinating, though I found myself wondering how safe the boats actually were. Then there were the health warnings. Malaria maps. Dengue zones. Followed closely by traffic horror stories and well meaning advice about what not to eat. It didn’t stop there. Thailand’s seasons came with footnotes. There wasn’t just a rainy season, but several variations of it, each affecting different regions at different times. Islands needed to be chosen carefully. Beaches, apparently, had schedules. Visit at the wrong moment and you risked monsoon rains, smoky air in the north, or both. None of this information was necessarily wrong. It was just a lot. What I didn’t realise at first was that I wasn’t actually planning a trip. I was trying to eliminate every possible inconvenience in advance. I was so focused on getting Thailand right that I’d managed to make the planning process feel far heavier than the destination itself. The more I researched, the narrower my thinking became. Instead of curiosity, I felt caution. Instead of excitement, responsibility. Somewhere between party streets, food warnings, and weather charts, I’d lost sight of why I wanted to go in the first place. Thailand hadn’t become overwhelming.The information had. What Thailand Actually Felt Like Once I Arrived In the end, what changed everything wasn’t another round of planning.It was arriving. I’d tried to apply the same itinerary logic I use in Europe. Pick a handful of places, connect the dots, keep things moving. That approach has served us well before. But Thailand felt different on paper. Distances were harder to judge, transport less familiar, and the climate alone made the idea of constant movement feel unnecessarily exhausting. So we eased back. Not because we were nervous, but because we didn’t need to prove anything. This was our vacation, after all. We decided to start in Phuket rather than dive straight into Bangkok, and almost immediately, the tension I’d built up over months of planning began to dissolve. The airport was large but manageable. Immigration was brisk and efficient. The taxi ride across the island was busy, but not chaotic. Just life happening at full volume. What struck me most were the details I hadn’t been warned about. Fresh flowers everywhere. Carefully tended Buddha shrines tucked into roundabouts and perched along hillsides. A sense of pride and order beneath the movement of the island. Ironically, the most stressful moment of that first day was getting a SIM card activated. Everything else, landing, customs, transport, checking into the hotel, was straightforward. Nothing felt unsafe. Nothing felt out of control. Quite the opposite. People were warm, patient, and quietly helpful in a way that doesn’t announce itself. It just is. By the time we reached our hotel, the anxiety I’d carried through the planning phase had all but evaporated. In its place was something far more familiar. Curiosity, excitement, and the relief of realising that this trip didn’t require vigilance. Just presence. The Real Source of Overwhelm (And It’s Not Thailand) Looking back, I can see that most of my anxiety had very little to do with Thailand itself. I was planning the trip using familiar habits, the same approach that had worked well for us in Europe. Pick the highlights. Keep moving. Make the most of every day. It’s a system I trust, and for Europe, it makes sense. But Thailand isn’t Europe with better beaches. What I hadn’t recognised at first was that I was so focused on getting Thailand right that I’d started to overpack the itinerary. Too many moves. Too little margin for hiccups. We were trying to experience as much of the country as possible in one go, and in doing so, I’d planned the vacation right out of the vacation. The problem wasn’t the destination.It was the pace. Once I saw that, everything shifted. Slowing down wasn’t about missing out. It was about finally having space to enjoy where we were. Without the self imposed pressure to keep moving, the days softened. There was time to wander, to sit, to notice the small, quieter moments that never make it into an itinerary. Thailand didn’t demand a different kind of traveller.It simply rewarded a different rhythm. What Changed When I Let Go of Doing It “Right” Once we gave ourselves permission to slow down, the days began to feel both quieter and more full, a combination I hadn’t quite expected. Without the pressure to move on, there was time for conversation. The kind that happens naturally when you’re not watching the clock or researching your next move. We talked with people at our hotel, shared stories over coffee, and listened to recommendations that weren’t polished or rehearsed. Local spots. A place someone liked for dinner. An island they’d stumbled across by accident. Those conversations led to experiences we never could have planned in advance. Dinners that ran long. Spontaneous boat rides. Small detours that became the highlight of the day. None of it came from a guidebook or a video, and that was precisely the point. Leaving space in our days meant we could decide as we went. Some days were active. Others weren’t. There was no sense that we were falling behind or missing out. Instead, Thailand felt generous, offering more the less we tried to extract from it. By letting go of the need to do everything, we ended up experiencing far more than we’d expected. Why Thailand Works So Well for Gen X Travellers My love of travel hasn’t changed over the years. The curiosity. The pull toward new places. The quiet thrill of arriving somewhere unfamiliar. None of that fades with time. What has changed is my tolerance for discomfort. Not luxury, necessarily. Just comfort in the practical sense. A good bed. Reliable air conditioning. A place where rest doesn’t feel like an afterthought. These things don’t dull the experience. They make it possible to enjoy it. We don’t always travel slowly. Sometimes time, budget, or circumstance gets in the way. But when we can ease back on the pace, the difference is immediate. Experiences have more room to settle. Days feel less transactional. I’m no longer measuring whether the trip is “working.” Thailand, more than many places we’ve travelled, seems to support this shift naturally. Slowing down there didn’t feel like a compromise. It felt like alignment. As though the country itself was quietly giving permission to stop pushing so hard. Not every moment needs to be filled. Not every day needs a plan. Thailand doesn’t reward urgency. It responds to attention. Sitting still. Watching. Letting time stretch a little. That’s the kind of travel I aim for now. Days where spontaneity has as much space as intention, and where doing less often leads to experiencing more. A Calm Way Forward I understand the feeling of being overwhelmed when planning a big trip, especially to a place you’ve never been. The urge to stack an itinerary with all the “must see” places is real. So is the unease that comes from not quite knowing how things will work once you arrive. Some of that uncertainty fades with preparation, of course. But not all of it needs to be solved in advance. What Thailand taught me is that overwhelm doesn’t come from the destination. It comes from trying to control every variable before you’ve even had a chance to arrive. Once I let go of that pressure, the experience opened up in ways I hadn’t anticipated. For a first trip to Southeast Asia, Thailand offers something rare. A sense of ease that reveals itself once you stop pushing. Since that initial visit, we’ve returned several times, often venturing into quieter islands and lesser travelled areas. Each trip has only deepened my appreciation, not just for the landscapes or the food, but for the way Thailand allows you to travel at your own pace. It’s a place that doesn’t ask you to keep up.It meets you where you are. And for many Gen X travellers, that makes all the difference. If You’re Short on Time Thailand often feels overwhelming before you arrive, not once you’re there Too much information creates more anxiety than clarity Overpacked itineraries are the real source of stress Slowing the pace allows confidence and ease to replace vigilance Thailand rewards attention, not urgency, especially for Gen X travellers

Victoria may be British Columbia’s capital of charm by day, but by night, it belongs to its ghosts. A City That Whispers Between Sips By daylight, Victoria is all teacups, coastal walks, and tidy manners. But when dusk slides over the harbour, the polite façades loosen, and the stories begin to breathe again. Over the past weeks, I’ve wandered through the city’s most haunted cafés, pubs, and landmarks for my Haunted Sips of Victoria  series, listening, sipping, and occasionally questioning whether that chill was from the draft or something more deliberate. Now, for those curious or courageous enough, here is how to spend one unforgettable day tracing their footsteps. Morning Start: Where Secrets Still Steam 📍  Union Pacific Coffee (via Fan Tan Alley) Begin your morning slipping through the narrow shadows of Fan Tan Alley, once home to gambling dens and hidden doors. Follow the scent of espresso to Union Pacific Coffee, where brick walls hold stories far stronger than the brew. Order something bold; you will need it. The rest of the day only gets stranger. Late Morning History and Haunts 📍  Garrick’s Head Pub, Canada’s Oldest Pub (est. 1867) Pull up a stool at Garrick’s Head Pub, where miners once celebrated their luck and occasionally mourned it. It is Canada’s oldest pub, and regulars claim a few loyal spirits never cancelled their tabs. If your pint ripples when no one is near, that is just Garrick’s hospitality. Afternoon Reflections in Oil and Echoes 📍  James Bay Inn, The Ghost of Emily Carr Once a hospital and later the final home of artist Emily Carr, the James Bay Inn carries a quieter kind of unease. Have lunch or a drink in the pub below; locals swear Emily still lingers, perhaps pausing to admire her old haunt one more time. It is haunted, yes, but tastefully so. Twilight Drama in Stained Glass 📍  Craigdarroch Castle If ever a house deserved its own séance, it is this one. Built by coal baron Robert Dunsmuir in the 1890s, Craigdarroch Castle is all wood-panelled staircases, scandal, and whispers in the wallpaper. Visit near sunset, when the stained-glass windows cast fractured light across the rooms, soft, beautiful, and just eerie enough to make you wonder who else might be admiring the view. Evening Toast to the Departed 📍  Bard & Banker Pub Once a bustling bank, now a Victorian-era pub where the vaults that once guarded gold now guard Guinness. Order a pint, toast to the city’s lingering souls, and mind your balance in more ways than one. Nightcap with a Nod to the Past 📍  The Bent Mast Restaurant & Pub Few places in Victoria feel as genuinely haunted as the Bent Mast. The creak of its old staircase, the flicker of lamplight, and the feeling that someone might be listening from the landing make every sip feel slightly shared. If the chandelier sways, do not panic. It is probably just the building breathing. Final Stop: Grand Dreams and Ghostly Company 📍  The Fairmont Empress Hotel, 6th Floor if You Dare End your night in Victoria’s most iconic hotel. The Fairmont Empress has played host to royals, writers, and at least one resident who never checked out. Guests have reported flickering lights, phantom footsteps, and a kindly spirit who still tends to the corridors. Sleep well, if you can. Before turning in, wander out for Victoria’s Haunted Ghost Walking Tour, and let a lantern-carrying guide reveal the stories that still roam after dark. Plan Your Own Haunted Date in Victoria Whether you are planning a date, a girls’ getaway, or a solo adventure in good company, alive or otherwise, this itinerary blends Victoria’s charm and chills perfectly. Just remember, ghosts prefer respectful visitors and a toast now and then. Watch the Full Haunted Sips Series Experience every stop before you go: TikTok:   Watch the Series on TikTok I nstagram Reels:   See the Highlights on Instagram YouTube Shorts:   Watch the Full Series on YouTube Shorts Plan, Sip & Stay Curious If Victoria’s haunted charm has you curious for more, I have gathered everything you need to plan your own spirited getaway, from ghost walks to guided history tours. Head to my Day Trips, Food Tours & More page and scroll down to find my hand-picked Haunted Victoria experiences, including the city’s best ghost walking tours, historic pub stops, and after-dark adventures. Each one has been carefully chosen for travellers who love a good story served with a side of goosebumps. Whether you are planning a date, a girls’ night, or just testing your courage, it is all waiting for you there. Plan boldly. Sip slowly. Stay curious.

Flaming Bull Festival in Morella (Bou Embolat) A Train Delay That Changed Everything If it hadn’t been for a sudden train delay in Vinaròs, Spain, we never would have found Morella. It wasn’t on our itinerary. In fact, we hadn’t even heard of it. But after waiting several hours in an overcrowded train station, surrounded by bleary-eyed twenty-somethings returning from the party island of Ibiza, we began to realize we had two choices: spend the night on the tiled floor of a transport hub that smelled vaguely of beer and sunburn… or find another way forward. While my son retreated into a book, my husband was scanning the horizon like he might will a train into existence, I sat cross-legged on the floor and teetering between optimism and mild despair. So I pulled out my old-school Spain travel guide. I wasn’t expecting miracles, just an alternative to what was rapidly becoming a low point in our five-week European adventure. That’s when I found it. A small entry tucked between better-known destinations: Morella. A walled hilltop town, medieval in appearance, steeped in military history, and according to the guidebook, host to a unique local festival held only once every six years. I checked the date, and as luck would have it, this was the year. I nudged my husband. “What if we just… rented a car and went to Morella?” I pointed to the page like I was revealing a winning lottery number. “There’s even a car rental desk here at the station. Two, actually.” Even if the trains resumed (they wouldn’t), no train went to Morella. If we wanted to get there, it had to be by road. We took that as a sign. Road Trip to Morella: Spain’s Hidden Medieval Gem Keys in hand, backpacks in the boot, and an actual paper map in my lap, we set off, having never driven in Spain before and hoping the car’s clutch wasn’t going to be our undoing. Our first challenge came at the toll booth, where feeling falsely emboldened, we chose the automated lane. Unfortunately, it didn’t speak English. We didn’t speak Spanish. It asked us something we didn’t understand, and the only thing we could offer in response was panic. We backed up awkwardly, waved the locals around us, and shuffled over to a booth with a human inside. Between gestures, our guidebook map, and a shared tolerance for awkward grins, we communicated our destination. The toll agent nodded, took our coins, and lifted the gate. We were off! As we left the coast and entered Spain’s dry, rugged interior, the landscape shifted from parched to parched-and-hilly. For over an hour, we wound our way through quiet, sun-bleached terrain. Occasionally, we’d pass a farmhouse or a sheep. It was, by every measure, the road less travelled. Then, just as our son asked for the fourth time how much longer it would be, we rounded a bend and there it was. Morella, Spain First Impressions of Morella, Spain Morella. Perched high on a hill like a crown, flanked by soft valleys and jagged outcrops, it looked less like a town and more like a medieval film set that had been left untouched by modernity. The castle ruins caught the late-afternoon sun like a beacon. Everything, the sandstone walls, the warm-toned rooftops, the sheer drop of the cliffside, glowed with the kind of light you can’t photograph well but will remember forever. We were giddy. It was more than promising; it was perfect. We found a parking spot just outside the old-town gate and hauled our bags into the village. The town was quiet. Surprisingly quiet. Perhaps it was the hour or the day of the week. We had no reservation but managed to find a room at a small hotel where no one spoke English, and our collective Spanish hovered somewhere between “tapas” and “gracias.” Still, we managed. We got directions, mostly through mime and repetition, and went out in search of food. As we made our way down the main street, something struck us. The sidewalks, which ran under the buildings' overhanging roofs, were all barricaded from the road by thick wooden planks. It gave the place an odd, Wild West feel as if at any moment, a saloon brawl or shootout might erupt. We made a note of it, but only in passing. At the time, it seemed like quirky small-town infrastructure. That would change later. The town itself was charming. Local bakeries, small tapas bars, shops selling woollen goods and wine all with a distinctively Spanish feel, but none of the polish or pretense of a place used to catering to tourists. In fact, we got the distinct impression that we were the only tourists in town. It didn’t feel secret. It felt untouched. Finding Paella in Morella, Spain Finding Paella and Local Flavours in Morella Our first meal in Morella was found down a narrow alleyway just off the main street. The kind of place with no English menus and no apologies for it. The chalkboard listed items we could only half-translate, “pollo,” “arroz,” “verdures”, so we pointed, ordered one dish for the three of us, and hoped for the best. What arrived was not just better than expected, it was a feast. A massive, silver-rimmed paella dish, still steaming, filled with perfectly seasoned chicken, smoky rice, and just enough vegetables to convince ourselves it counted as a balanced meal. It was the kind of meal you don’t so much eat as surrender to. We devoured it. No polite small talk. No bites held back. When we finally looked up, dazed and glowing with post-paella contentment, the streets outside where hushed. Lights glowed faintly in doorways, and for a town that was apparently about to unleash flaming bulls, it seemed almost absurdly peaceful.  With full bellies and a long unexpected travel day now behind us, we decided to head off to bed and rest up for what Morella had to offer us tomorrow. Exporing Morella Castle and Ancient History The next morning, with our nerves rested and the town still fresh to our eyes, we set off to explore the castle that had been looming over us since our arrival. My husband, ever the history enthusiast, looked like a kid en route to a medieval candy store. Our son, still not quite over the paella coma, trudged along behind us. At one point he climbed a low wall, announced he was a knight defending his kingdom, and promptly got bored. It was hard to tell if he was more interested in the history or in getting back to lunch. The castle at Morella is exactly what you'd hope for in a Spanish hilltop fortress: old, dramatic, and clinging to the edge of a cliff like it’s refusing to retire. Built on a chunk of rock that’s been considered prime real estate since the Neolithic era, it’s been occupied by just about everyone: Greeks, Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Christians. Think of it as a centuries-long game of military Airbnb. Strategically, it makes sense. You can see everything from up there, the valleys, the surrounding hills, probably even your neighbour’s dinner if you squint. And while various armies fought to control it over the centuries, nowadays it's mostly claimed by tourists in sensible footwear and puffed-out dads pointing at battlements. We climbed the uneven stairs, explored weathered stone rooms, and read signs we only half-understood. The view from the top was worth every step: the entire town stretched out below us like a movie set, the surrounding countryside rolling on forever. I could see why everyone wanted to conquer it. I also now understood why no one wants to walk back down without a snack break. Afterwards, we wandered back into the village, poked around shops, and noted the bullring, still very much in use, though thankfully not that day. We embraced the idea of a siesta before returning to the same little alleyway restaurant for what quickly became our signature order: chicken paella. Same server. Same bliss. The Flaming Bull Festival in Morella (Bou Embolat) And that’s when the real spectacle began. As we sat back, content once more with our meal, I remembered those odd wooden barricades from the day before. They no longer seemed like quirky infrastructure, but more like a warning, the kind you only recognize too late. Then the sound hit us: drums, horns, music rolling down the narrow streets, shaking the quiet air awake. The town had stirred, and so did our curiosity. As we made our way to the main street, the bands grew louder, echoing down the narrow stone street. Families climbed the barricades, settling in with the casualness of people who’d done this their whole lives. At first, it all seemed harmless. The men in white and red rolled out their wheelbarrow bull, a rough wooden contraption with curved horns. Children squealed as they were chased, giggling and darting between the barricades. Then came the older kids, the bull’s horns now fitted with sparklers that spat light and smoke. It was charming in a slightly pyromaniacal way. “That must be it,” I said. “Their version of the running of the bulls. Cute.” We relaxed. We even chuckled. And then the horn blast came. Loud. Guttural. The crowd surged as if hit by a shockwave. Suddenly, everyone knew something we didn’t. The first real bull charged into view. Massive, fast, its horns rigged with some kind of sheathed contraption that flared with balls of fire. The flames spat and roared with every shake of its head, lighting up the night. And behind it came another!  The heat rolled off them as they thundered past, so close you could smell the singed hair. Meanwhile, the locals leaned in casually, as though this were no more alarming. Than waiting for a bus. The street was barely wide enough for a car, and here they were, tons of flaming muscle, charging within arm’s reach. I grabbed the wooden barricade with one hand and my son with the other as the bulls tore past, hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones. The crowd screamed, cheered, and leaned dangerously close. This wasn’t cute. And it definitely wasn’t controlled. We might have survived unscathed had one bull not doubled back. Instead of heading for the ring at the end of the street, it slipped through a gap in the barricades and reappeared on the sidewalk, “our” sidewalk. Instinct took over. In one motion, I shoved my son sideways, trying to push him out of the bull’s path, just as someone behind yanked me backwards through an opening. The bull thundered past, flames licking the night, and for a few terrifying seconds, I had no idea where my husband or son were. When I spotted them, my son wide-eyed across the street, my husband hustling from another barricade, the relief lasted all of two seconds. Because the bull was coming back again! Spanish Hospitality Chaos, Barricades, and Balcony Hospitality We scrambled up the nearest crowded barricade, clawing for any handhold. In my panic, I grabbed what I thought was a support post, only to discover it was a local man’s … anatomy! He yelped, I screamed, and somehow he shifted aside on the overcrowded barricade to make room for us. To this day, I’m thankful my Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate what he told his friends about what just happened. We climbed off the barricade, but just when we thought we were out of danger, another bull came careening down the street. We spotted a ladder leading up to a balcony. We climbed, assuming it was public, only to find ourselves on someone’s private balcony. But instead of shooing us out, the family welcomed us, pressing food and drink into our hands as if we were distant cousins who’d just dropped by mid-stampede. From our perch, we watched more bulls charge down the street, the barricades rattling, the flames glowing against the stone walls. By the time we climbed back down, still buzzing with adrenaline, the streets were quiet again. We ducked into a bar to decompress. That’s when my son turned to me and asked, “Mum, why did you push me in front of the bull with flaming horns?” “What? I pushed you out of the way!” “Well, that may have been your intention,” he said with a grin, “but I came eye-to-eye with a flame-throwing bull, so… that’s a moment I won’t soon forget.” It’s his favourite version of the story. Mine is that I saved him. The truth, as always, is somewhere in the chaos. Back in our hotel room, none of us said much. My husband lay silently staring at the ceiling, my son kept replaying the moment in slow motion, and I sat there Googling “bull festivals Spain: how often do people die?” “Well,” my son finally said, “that was… something.” And that was the understatement of the trip. What is the Sexenni Festival in Morella? Only later, over coffee in a quiet corner of the village the next day, did we finally ask the obvious question: What exactly had we just witnessed? As it turns out, Morella’s flaming bull spectacle isn’t some one-off village stunt or eccentric summer tradition, it’s part of something much bigger. Every six years, the town holds the Sexenni de Morella, a nine-day festival to honour the Virgin of Vallivana, believed to have spared the town from plague back in the 1600s. In gratitude, Morella vowed to mark the occasion every sixth year with pageantry, processions, dancing guilds, and yes, bulls with literal fire on their heads. The event we’d stumbled into, called the bou embolat, is part of that centuries-old promise. Whether it’s cultural pride, divine obligation, or just a particularly intense form of local entertainment, it’s taken very seriously. And here we were, clueless Canadians, dodging flaming livestock like it was just another Tuesday night. Morella vs. The Rest of Spain: Why This Detour Stands Out In the days that followed, we continued on with our trip finally making it to Valencia, then on to Seville with its orange-blossom air and shaded plazas, followed by Gibraltar, where we were unceremoniously chased by monkeys on the Rock like it was some sort of wildlife-themed slapstick sketch. From there, we wandered through the medieval maze of Toledo, El Greco’s old stomping grounds, and a hilltop town that almost gave Morella a run for its money, before eventually making our way to Paris, and then into Germany to visit family. Over five weeks, we covered a lot of ground. Ate a lot of bread. Argued about directions. Got better at packing and worse at resisting pastry. But even with all that, nothing quite matched the absurd, accidental brilliance of Morella. It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even been in the realm of “maybe.” If the trains hadn’t stalled that day, if we hadn’t been stuck in that hot little train station full of hungover backpackers, if I hadn’t flipped open a guidebook out of desperation, we never would’ve known that Morella existed. Let alone that we’d be there, just hours later, climbing medieval barricades and dodging bulls with flaming horns like it was the most natural thing in the world. And to think, if that train had arrived on time, our story would have been about nothing more memorable than sweaty backpacks and missed connections. Medival towns of Spain Final Thoughts: When Travel Detours Become the Story Morella wasn’t just a detour. It was the story of the trip. The one that comes up whenever someone asks, “What’s the wildest thing that’s ever happened to you while travelling?” It’s the one we still tell with dramatic hand gestures and overlapping interruptions around dinner tables, long after the photos have been buried in old phones and half-filled albums. It’s the one my son never tires of retelling, especially the part where his mother heroically shoved him into the path of a charging bull on fire. Travel rarely goes exactly to plan. And thank God for that. Because the truth is, most of the best moments don’t happen when everything goes right. They happen when the train doesn’t come, and you’re forced to do something unexpected. Something mildly reckless. Something that might involve rental cars and toll booths and, if you're particularly lucky, flaming bulls. Morella gave us that story. And we didn’t even see it coming. Your turn... I’ve told you mine, flaming bulls and all. Now it’s your turn: what supposed disasters ended up as the best stories in your own travels?” Leave in the comments below.