Dear family,

Europe feels like stepping into a storybook—every cobblestone street has a story, every café has been there longer than I’ve been alive.

I spent a week in Paris, and yes, the Eiffel Tower is just as magnificent as they say. But what I loved most were the mornings at the corner bakery, where the baker remembered my order by the third day: one croissant, black coffee, and a smile. The old man at the next table played chess by himself every single morning. We never spoke, but we nodded like old friends.

Rome overwhelmed me in the best way. The Colosseum, the fountains, the pasta! I threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain like the tourists do. Who knows if I’ll return, but it felt right to hope for it.

In the Scottish Highlands, I stood on ancient ground and felt very small. The green hills roll on forever, dotted with sheep who couldn’t care less about tourists. I had whisky in a pub where they’ve been pouring drinks since 1608. The bartender told me stories about his grandfather, and I told him about you kids.

Prague’s bridges at sunset, Barcelona’s wild architecture, Amsterdam’s canals—each city shared its treasures with me. My feet are tired, but my spirit is full.

Thinking of you with every step.

All my love,
Grandpa