By Deb Colitti

A few months ago, I decided to wake up — to see if I could smell the roses again.

I booked a future Seabourn trip — a solo adventure with hopes to find my strength and power again, in a safe place that felt like home.

Like a giddy kid in a candy store, I shopped and planned, turning the voyage into a goal that felt both exciting and necessary. Something I had to do — on my own.

As planned i began this journey solo, spending pre-boarding days in Vancouver where I wandered, explored, laughed —and felt alive again. When I boarded the ship, I had no idea what was waiting for me.

Somewhere between the sea and the stars, a new chapter unfolded. The universe sent me two angels — people I was meant to meet — who would become the most important part of my journey, and, I suspect, my life going forward.

Enter Mark and Jacqueline.

What could have been just small talk soon became a party to remember. Nightly rituals — pajama parties filled with laughter, stories, and the kind of rich and raucous conversations that stretch into the early hours.

Jacqueline is pure CEO energy: sharp, brilliant, and funny as hell. Her politics, her commitment to truth and fairness, to doing the right thing — all of it spoke to me. Though she’s twenty years my junior, I knew we were cut from the same cloth. And she had a lot to teach me.

Mark — a “bred-in-the-bone” CEO — is equally playful and profound. Joyous, focused, and crazy-intelligent, he’s one of the most insightful management minds I’ve ever encountered. On the Emotional Quotient scale, he’s a solid twelve.

Yes, the angels who showed up — Mark and Jacqueline — carried a message I didn’t recognize at first. Sometimes the universe doesn’t whisper; it drops two extraordinary people right next door to remind you that life still holds magic, laughter, and purpose.

They weren’t just travel companions. They were mirrors — reflecting back the parts of me I’d forgotten, the parts that still sparkle when I let them. With them, everything became lighter: dinners turned into comedy hours, quiet mornings into deep, meandering talks about everything and nothing. We shared stories, sushi, and secrets.

The ship, the ports, the itinerary — they all faded into the background. What remained were the people, the connection, the rare alchemy. A reminder that joy is something we create together.

My real voyage wasn’t about crossing oceans — it was about finding myself again, through people who make you feel seen, heard, curious, and alive.

Thank you treasured new friends, Mark and Jacquie. To say I’m most grateful is an understatement.

It seems I was never meant to be a full-time, stay-at-home giddy grandma after all.

The road — and the sea — still have stories waiting for me. 

By Deb Colitti

I got a call from Pam — Tall Drink of Water Pam and her partner, the ever-charming Italian stallion, Eligio.

We met on the ship, though it wasn’t until the end of the voyage that we truly connected. From the beginning, though, they radiated spirit and beauty — not just in how they looked, but in how they moved through the world.

Pam is a tall, blonde opera singer in her fifties — warm, funny, and magnetic. She’s both stunning and disarming, the kind of woman who can fill a room with laughter or move it to tears, depending on the note she strikes.

Today she called about something simple: her hair color. Should she change it?

But behind that small question was something more — a reaching out, a trust, a spark of friendship still finding its rhythm on land.

She told me she admired my dark hair and light eyes, that she saw something in me that reflected what she was feeling — a readiness for change, for lightness, for joy. Shocked and complimented I gave her my three cents.

Over the last two weeks, our friendship had bloomed like something inevitable — two souls recognizing each other mid-journey.

As we spoke, her voice caught when we talked about the stories Jackie and I had shared — the laughter, the coincidences, the strange alchemy of this trip that keeps turning strangers into something golden.

Sometimes the smallest exchanges carry the longest echo.

By Deb Colitti

This week I went to the knee doctor, saw the facialist, gave away thirty pounds of clothing, called my cataract doctor, got the dog groomed, met Cole, did my hair and makeup — all of it.

Back to business.

On paper, it looks productive, almost triumphant. But inside, I’m a mix of bored, lonely, motivated, and a little dizzy. It’s that strange space after a big wave crests — when the water folds back over itself and you’re caught in the curl, suspended between motion and calm.

The past month was pure momentum — people, laughter, movement, story. Epic. Now the wave has curled, and here I am, finding my footing again. Regaining truth. Quiet. As annoying as it is, I know it’s part of the rhythm.

I thrive on people and connection, but this in-between has its own purpose. The stillness is where I catch my breath. The appointments, the errands, the ordinary days — they’re the counterbalance to the high of everything that came before.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s grounding. Pure ebb and flow.

By Deb Colitti

“You don’t realize how fast you were moving until you finally stop.”

There’s a strange quiet that follows quite a voyage.

The rhythm changes — the laughter softens, the schedule fades, the water stops rocking beneath you — and suddenly, you’re still.

At first, I thought I missed the motion. I caught myself reaching for it — the hum of the engines, the breakfast chatter, the sound of the sea splash against the hull. That constant, gentle reminder that I was going somewhere.

Now, at home, everything sits still.

The house doesn’t move. The phone doesn’t buzz. The sky stays put.

And yet, inside, there’s this echo — like my spirit is still swaying, waiting for the next wave.

Re-entry is funny that way. It’s not about the logistics of unpacking or laundry or resetting clocks; it’s about recalibrating the soul.

Learning to breathe in smaller moments again.

I find myself doing small things slowly. Just me, the still water, and the memory of motion.

And it’s peaceful.

I think stillness — it’s where everything lands.

It’s where the stories settle, where the memories stop moving long enough to take shape.

So I’m letting the calm do its work.

The voyage is still in me — in every quiet thought, every reflex of gratitude, every laugh that surfaces unexpectedly.

Still water doesn’t mean the journey’s over.

It means the heart’s finally caught up.

By Jacqueline Halldow

I’m a few days behind in sharing this, but as we sit here in JFK waiting for our flight back to Tampa — after a whirlwind finale that carried us from Tokyo to Kyoto to Kamakura and then through the grandeur of Dubai — I wanted to pause and gather my final thoughts on this journey. It feels fitting to close the circle now after a complete circle around the globe and before the jet lag sets in and real life rushes back in.

Tokyo, Kyoto & Kamakura — Wagyu, Fuji, and the Coldest Beer in the World

We arrived in Tokyo on Sunday morning, hitting the streets by 10 a.m.armed with nothing but Japanese Rail (JR) Line schedules, misplaced confidence, and the stamina of our own two feet. Shinagawa Station pulsed with families and travelers who pirouetted through the platforms as if born with transit choreography. Meanwhile, Mark, Deb, and I shuffled like three great disruptors, throwing sand into the gears of a city that has zero patience for amateurs.

Our destination on the JR Yamanote Line: Ginza. Imagine Tiffany’s, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Gucci stacked like Starbucks in America — luxury on every corner, brand warfare disguised as shopping. We weren’t destined to become Tokyo fashionistas, so naturally we ducked into Eataly (because nothing says Japan like a big-box Italian grocery). Still, after twenty days at sea, that first decent cup of coffee felt like receiving a sacrament.

Then came Wagyu. A 12-seat yakiniku restaurant where the table itself became our grill. We egg-washed vegetables, flipped octopus, and sizzled Wagyu rice balls so rich they nearly earned a standing ovation. But the revelation? Japanese draft beer — poured at arctic temperatures, topped with a head so creamy it deserved its own Michelin star.

Stuffed, we did what any sensible people would: 15-minute, $20 massages. Mark and I chose backs, Deb opted for feet (a tactical strike against her Baker’s cyst). 

For cocktails that evening, I led us to C’est La Vie — which, despite its name, was not rooftop chic but a slightly dingy neighborhood dive. An hour and 14,000 yen later, we finally course-corrected to Ce La Vi on the 18th floor — cocktails in hand, orchestra-row seats for the human symphony of Shibuya Crossing.

After our usuals — Deb’s Bird Bath, Mark’s G&T, and my champagne — we rolled ourselves into the chaos of Shibuya at night, where giant LED screens blared ads big enough to be seen from orbit, neon kanji pulsed like electric heartbeats, and waves of pedestrians surged in every direction as though someone had shaken a human snow globe.

Without a reservation, we stumbled into a little gyoza spot — pork so garlicky and scallion-it made America’s puréed dumpling pouches feel like baby food in comparison.

The next morning, we boarded the bullet train to Kyoto. Out the window, Fuji appeared like a perfect cone — solitary, serene, and so symmetrical it looked as though Japan had sketched it just for us. At first, we mistook it for a hill. A 12,000-foot hill. Perspective is tricky.

We had less than 5½ hours in Kyoto: sights, lunch and gifts at warp speed.

ü  11:00 – Arrive at Kyoto Station. Straight to Inari Station for Fushimi Inari Shrine. Thousands of vibrant orange torii gates stretched into the hills like a never-ending hallway to heaven. The souvenir stalls offered both charm (fox statues, ema plaques) and pure kitsch. Shopping restraint was exercised.

ü  Lunch in Gion/Higashiyama at Kyara. A bento feast where the pickled cucumber deserved its own haiku.

ü  Pottery & Tea. After lunch, we drifted through Gion’s narrow lanes to Asahido Pottery and Kaikado tea caddies. Both were quintessential Kyoto: hand-painted fans, intricate ceramics, craftsmanship that makes you want to ship a container home.

So relaxed were we, floating from shop to shop, that we nearly missed our return train. We made it by two minutes — sweaty, frantic, clutching bags of souvenirs — we collapsed into a two-hour nap as if we’d just conquered Kyoto itself.

By evening, Mark conjured reservations at the Okura Hotel’s serene Japanese restaurant: minimalist gardens, sashimi and nigiri presented like sculpture, and women in traditional dress bowing us into closure.

Our last day was bittersweet. Deb prepared to fly back to New York the next day, while we packed for Dubai. We squeezed in a trip to Kamakura, a breezy little beach town with shrines, surfboards, and more charm than it had any right to possess. 

One final cocktail in the lounge and then fate intervened: Jim and Connie — neighbors from our Seabourn voyage — strolled by. Twenty days ago, they were strangers: now they’re invited to our Christmas party in Tampa. Proof the world isn’t big at all — it’s basically one long cruise cocktail party.

A Toast to the Journey

This adventure began in Vancouver on September 17^th, under crisp skies and mountain peaks, and carried us through the wild air of Alaska — fishing from family boats, watching dolphins leap, and breathing in air so sharp it reminded us we were alive. From there, Japan unfurled before us: temple steps that humbled our knees, barber shop poles, neon-lit nights, rooftop cocktails high above Shibuya’s human snow globe, and food so good it deserves its own passport stamp.

But the real story isn’t geography or culinary takes. It’s the people.

Barbarella and Robert — who can turn meals into theater, applauding chefs and laughing until the walls shake.

Tall Drink of Water Pam and the Italian Stallion — striding with elegance and wit, reminding us that presence alone can be a gift.

Then there’s Deb — on her fourth Seabourn voyage, but her first without her beloved Wes. Friends offered to join her, but she chose to come alone. This was her rebirth — her own Awakening. And fittingly, The Awakening was my favorite book in Women’s Lit. The sea carried her, steady and enveloping, just as Chopin wrote: “She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment.”

To watch Deb step back into the world after heartbreak was both humbling and inspiring. I cannot fathom the depths of her pain but traveling with her impressed upon me a truth I’ll never unlearn- tomorrow is never promised. So, love your people with urgency and tenderness. Tell them what they mean. Nurture them, fiercely and without hesitation. Live wide awake — with presence, with joy and with goodness.

And then, Mark. None of this would be possible without him — my compass, my anchor, my gift. The one who makes sure adventures aren’t just dreamed but lived. The reason my heart is full.

So, let me leave you with Kate’s words and mine, intertwined. Chopin wrote: “The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.” And the sea has spoken to us on this voyage — in Alaska’s spray, from the icy cop of the Bering Sea into the endless blue of the Pacific, into Japan’s harbors, in the stillness of dawn and the riot of night — reminding me that life itself is the same: a vast, unrelenting, and tender embrace.

 Until next time …

-J

Feeling exhausted and renewed. So much more to say, but I’m tired and there will be another day.

Thrilled to be reuniting with Grey, Amedeo, Hadley and Jamison tonight!

This is my shrine to Japan and gifts for the kiddos. 🇯🇵🇯🇵🇯🇵

Throughout Tokyo, children in school uniforms can be seen everywhere—roaming freely after school, often from as young as six, with little or no supervision.

Tokyo metro and bullet train – We figured you out and learned to love you. Mark and Jacquie navigated and lead the way.

I managed to do a month-long trip with a total of nine dollars American. Credit cards and help from friends with Yen made it all possible..