This must be the place: Ode to 10 years of ‘This…place,’ ode to all you kind readers

Hello from 36,000 feet above the Midwest on this otherwise quiet Monday afternoon.

Compris or Non Compris

In France, the price of service in a restaurant is included in the bill and the servers are paid roughly about 15% of your total ticket. If you feel the service was excellent and you want to add a little extra, 5% of your tab can be left on the table. I wish I had had this tidbit of information before I ate my first meal out in town. We had a discussion in class about restaurants, ordering and how the French menu is laid out. What we did not discuss was the well-known fact amongst the French that the service is always included in the price of the meal.

Flowing

I recently watched a video of Carolyn Myss discussing how guidance works. She shared how she returned from teaching overseas and walked into her New Hampshire farmhouse only to feel that she could no longer live there. This house had been her home for ten years. Without taking her coat off, in twenty-two minutes flat, she had arranged for a neighbor to help her pack, her brother to fly down and drive a moving van, and asked her mother if she could stay with her until she decided where her next home would be.

This must be the place: To rouse the spirit of the earth and move the rolling sky

Hello from Room 827 at the Marriott Town Center in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. The outside temperature is dropping, all while soft snowflakes cascade by the hotel window onto the cold pavement below. 

This must be the place: Morning comes wearing diamonds, where she is, the sun is shining

Hello from Room 128 at the Red Roof Inn in Hardeeville, South Carolina, just north of the Georgia state line off Interstate 95. It’s 10:01 a.m. Yesterday, I awoke in Room 208 at the Hampton Inn outside of Lake Wales, Florida.

This must be the place: One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls

I had about an hour window of no rain before the remnants of the tropical storm would slowly, but surely, slide into the North Country. The clouds were already darkening above the Adirondack Mountains as the nose of the truck was aimed west, heading out from my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, New York. 

This must be the place: You want to find the truth in life, don’t pass music by

Hello from Room 307 at the Hilton Garden Inn amid the coastal community of Monterey, California. It’s 11 a.m. and I have a flight to catch from San Francisco to Atlanta later tonight. But, for now? I figured I’d wander up the along the Pacific Coast Highway, ole Route 1, en route to SFO for that 10:50 p.m. takeoff. 

This must be the place: The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great

Editor’s Note: While on assignment for Rolling Stone out in Monterey, California, last weekend, Garret decided to hang out in San Francisco for a couple of days beforehand, just to hit the ground runnin’ and once again feel the vibe of the city he missed. The following is what he felt, and wrote about, in real time.

This must be the place: I’ll eat when I’m hungry, I’ll drink when I’m dry, and when I get thirsty I’ll lay down and cry

Emerging from his merchandise table at The Grey Eagle in Asheville last week, legendary troubadour Ramblin’ Jack Elliott moseyed on over to where I stood in the lobby. With a signature grin rolling across his face, the 91-year-old folk hero extended his hand and said he was looking forward to our interview backstage.

This must be the place: Well, I love home, but the road’s got all I need

The alarm on the smart phone shook me out of some foggy, odd dream. Par for the course, in terms of the subconscious realm. Lots on the mind lately, whether near or far from my inner thoughts and emotions. Turn off the alarm and emerge from one’s slumber. 

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