Latest news with #journey
The Guardian
8 hours ago
- General
- The Guardian
Tim Dowling: how can my wife live without her glasses – and even her phone?
It is early in the morning, and my wife and I are setting off on a long car journey. My wife is driving; I am looking at my phone. It is my plan to look at my phone for at least the first hour, even though it is unlikely my wife will allow this. 'Bit hazy,' she says. 'Hmm,' I say, looking at my phone. 'But I think it might burn off later,' she says. 'What?' I say, forcing my eyes up to the horizon. 'Never mind,' my wife says, turning on the radio. I return to my phone. 'Sorry, will you clean these please?' my wife says, handing me her glasses. 'What?' I say. Instead of answering, she drops her glasses into my lap. Reluctantly I put down my phone, pull out the hem of my shirt, and fog the lenses with my breath. 'By the way, I don't approve of this,' I say, overtaken by irritation. 'Of what?' she says. 'I mean, first, I can't believe how filthy these glasses are,' I say. 'I know,' she says. 'That's why I asked you to …' 'And second,' I say. 'I can't believe you didn't notice until we'd done eight miles on the motorway.' 'I just realised the haze I was seeing was on my glasses,' she says. 'That's the best I can do,' I say, handing her glasses back. 'Much better, thank you,' she says. 'It's not safe,' I say. After a few minutes spent looking at my phone, my irritation subsides. I remind myself that my wife doesn't need her glasses the way I need my glasses: she will sometimes lose them for an entire weekend without suffering any particular inconvenience. I couldn't take off my glasses while driving without quickly crashing into a bridge support. Something I've seen on my phone catches my attention. 'Interesting,' I say. 'Guess how many …' 'No,' my wife says. 'Wait, just guess how many countries have a …' 'You didn't want to chat,' she says. 'Don't try to start a conversation now, using facts you found on your phone.' 'Fine,' I say. I take off my glasses to clean them, and the world ahead becomes a blur. Two days later, it is time to set off for home, but my wife can't find her phone. 'I swear I just had it,' she says, coming back from the car. 'Will you ring it?' 'Straight to voicemail,' I say, holding my own phone to my ear. 'Why is it doing that?' she says. 'It's fully charged.' 'Probably because there's no signal wherever you left it,' I say. In practical terms, this means outside, and it's raining outside. We try to approach the problem logically. My wife's laptop indicates the last picture she took on her phone was of a nearby pond, only 35 minutes previously. 'And then what?' I say. 'Did you fling it into the pond?' 'I went across that meadow, through the gate, and then to the car,' she says. 'But I really don't think I would have left my phone outside.' 'I once found your phone in the crook of the tree,' I say. 'That was different,' she says. 'I was listening to the Archers omnibus while I was weeding.' My wife returns to the pond, while I walk the meadow twice over, getting soaked. I am longing, for reasons both admirable and shameful, to be the person who finds the phone. But I don't see how anyone could find anything in this expanse of long grass. As I approach the car, the rain turning heavy, I see my wife coming. When she sees me she holds her phone above her head. 'Where was it?' I say. 'It was lying on a stone wall, getting rained on,' she says. 'I think I was taking a picture, and then my shoe was untied, and then … never mind.' 'Let's go,' I say. As we drive the sky begins to clear toward the east. The recent rain and the warm weather have caused the hedgerows to explode with growth. 'I'm glad we found it,' my wife says. 'It felt very uncomfortable not having my phone.' I do not say what I am thinking, which is: people who are truly uncomfortable without their phones don't leave them on stone walls in the rain. I need to be an exemplar of patience, if only because I so often try the patience of others. As we approach an intersection made blind by fresh greenery, my wife hands me her glasses. 'Will you clean these?' she says. 'Of course,' I say.
UAE Moments
12 hours ago
- UAE Moments
Daily Affirmation for June 28, 2025 to Kickstart Your Vibe
✨ Today's Affirmation: "I am safe, guided, and ready for the journey ahead—even if my heart needs a little extra time to catch up." 💫 Vibe Check: Feeling tense about a trip you didn't exactly choose? Whether it's for work, family, or something else, leaving your comfort zone can stir up all kinds of nerves. You're not alone. Today's energy invites you to make peace with the unknown. You don't have to be excited—just open. Let this chapter unfold gently, one breath at a time. 🧘♀️ Why This Works: When you're traveling under pressure, your nervous system can go into overdrive. This affirmation soothes the flight-or-fight response and helps you ground yourself in the fact that you're being taken care of, even in unfamiliar places. 🌿 Your Mini Mission: Ease into emotional security with these travel-prep rituals: – Pack a comfort item (yes, even if it's just a hoodie that smells like home). – Jot down one good thing that might come out of this trip, no matter how small. – Practice a grounding breath: In for 4, hold for 4, out for 6. Repeat three times when you feel the stress sneak in. 🎧 Power Up Playlist: Songs for traveling with courage, not fear: 'Unwritten' – Natasha Bedingfield 'Home' – Phillip Phillips 'Let Go' – Frou Frou 'Send Me On My Way' – Rusted Root 'Free' – Florence Arman 🔮 Bonus Energy Tip: Carry a small piece of black tourmaline. It's a powerful protection stone—great for travel, grounding, and shielding you from unwanted vibes. Hold it whenever you feel unsettled and say: "I am protected in every place I go."
ABC News
18-06-2025
- ABC News
Roads Unknown: India
Roads Unknown: India follows Australian adventure rider Jess Zahra, as she embarks on an unforgettable 5,000km motorbike journey across India, experiencing the country's scenic landscapes and cultural richness. Saturdays. Posted 27m ago 27 minutes ago Wed 18 Jun 2025 at 2:00am
Washington Post
16-06-2025
- General
- Washington Post
Field notes from the end of life: My thoughts on living while dying
As friends are quick to tell me, we are all living with dying. True enough. Especially because I'm 76, or, as my late husband, Alec, would say, 'too old to die young.' But it's still disturbing to get official notice of your imminent demise. Most of us will, at some point, have to navigate this journey for ourselves or with someone we love. In a series of stories, I'll be sharing my field notes as I make my way from here to there, in the hope that others might find it useful.
Yahoo
14-06-2025
- Yahoo
Tim Dowling: Why are my friends erasing me from their holiday memories?
After a sometimes fraught four-hour car journey, my wife and I and three friends arrive at a remote, sea-facing house in Greece. I've been here once before, a couple of years ago, but my memory of the place is fragmentary. I've remembered, for example, that you can't get the car anywhere near the house – you have to lug your stuff across a beach and over some rocks – and have packed accordingly. But the view from the top of the rocks still comes as a disheartening surprise. 'I forgot about the second beach,' I say, looking at the house in the distance. 'I didn't,' my wife says. 'Press on.' As we trudge along the sand, I think: how could I not remember this? Along with my bag I am carrying my wife's suitcase – whose wheels have never been less use – just as I did two years ago. It's precisely the sort of personal hardship I pride myself on being able to relate in numbing detail. Once we're in the house my brain serves me no better: I've retained a memory of the layout, which turns out to be back-to-front. This will cause me to lose my way over and over again in the course of the coming week: seeking a terrace, I will end up on a balcony, and vice versa. 'It's not that I don't remember it,' I say to my wife the next morning. 'It's that I'm remembering it wrong.' 'Do you remember getting up in the middle of the night to stand in the cupboard?' she says. 'Yes, I do remember that,' I say. 'And I wasn't trying to stand in the cupboard, I just thought it was the bedroom door.' A few days later more friends arrive. We have all been on holiday together many times before, in varying configurations, with and without children. These memories form the basis of a lot of the conversation. One evening I walk into the kitchen where a few people are preparing supper. They're talking about an Easter weekend in Dorset long ago, and laughing about egg-rolling in terrible weather. 'I was there,' I say. Everyone stops talking and turns to look at me. 'Were you?' says Mary, dubiously. 'Yeah,' I say. 'The weather was bad, as you say, and we went egg-rolling.' I try to think of another detail from the weekend that will convince them of my presence, but absolutely nothing comes to mind. Maybe, I think, I wasn't there. My wife walks in. 'What are we talking about?' she says. 'Easter in Dorset,' says Chiara. 'I remember that,' my wife says. 'Egg-rolling in the rain.' 'That's right!' says Mary. 'Your recollection is remarkably accurate,' I say to my wife. 'Which is weird, because you weren't there' 'When I said that, everybody looked at me as if I had dementia,' I say. Everybody looks at me again, in a way that makes me want to go and stand in a cupboard. I recently read that to retrieve a memory is also, in some way, to rewrite it. Frequently recalled episodes are particularly fragile – the more you remember them, the more fictionalised they become. But to be honest, I'm not even sure I'm remembering this correctly. The next day everyone spends the afternoon reading on the terrace. At some point I fall asleep. When I wake, my book is resting on my face, the sun has set, and I am alone. I find everyone else in the kitchen, cooking. I open a beer and listen as my wife tells a story about a holiday in Portugal from 20 years ago. She is recounting the part about the hired van getting a flat tyre while going down a hill. This, at least, I remember. 'The tyre came right off the wheel and started rolling ahead of us,' she says. 'We watched as it rolled all the way down, and halfway up the next hill, till it slowed and stopped. Then it started rolling back down towards us.' Related: Tim Dowling: I need to drop everything so I can get back to doing nothing – and quickly 'Well, almost,' I say. 'What?' she says. 'Am I telling it wrong?' 'No, you're being remarkably accurate,' I say. 'Which is weird, because you weren't there.' 'Yes I was,' she says. 'No, it was just me and him,' I say, pointing to a friend whom I'll call Paul, because his real name is Piers. 'Yeah, it was just us,' says Paul. 'But I remember the wheel coming off,' she says. 'I can see it.' 'It's because he's told you the story so many times,' says Paul. 'My memory has infiltrated your brain to become your memory,' I say. 'That's so sweet,' says Paul. 'If you've got any more of mine,' I say, 'I'd quite like them back.'
