We just got back from 2.5 weeks in France and Portugal.

This part of the story is about Lisbon. 6 days with our friends Samir and Yulia.

And this one’s a little different.

No van breakdowns.
No gravel parking lots.
No Louie judging us from the backseat.

Just:

• really good food

• long walks

• ocean swims

• and a list you’ll probably want to save

First: context matters

This was our second time in Lisbon.

The first time, we did what any reasonable person would do:

try everything.

This time, we came back with a mission:

only the best.

No experiments. No “let’s see.”
Just… go straight to the winners.

The real highlight (not the food… surprisingly)

The best part of this trip wasn’t a restaurant.

It was Samir and Yulia.

Elite hosts. The kind that:

• casually live in a beautiful, perfectly located flat

• make you walk everywhere

• and somehow convince you that eating 3 meals + 2 desserts a day is “balanced”

We walked a lot.
Which is great because… we ate a lot.

Call it equilibrium.

Rain, timing, and one questionable decision

First two days: rain.

Now, some people get sad when it rains on vacation.
I get… opportunistic.

“Yalla, massage.”

Samir and Yulia had a go-to Thai spot:

💆‍♀️ BAO BAO

Super clean. Super professional. Very calm.

Then comes the moment.

The woman looks at me and goes:

“You can wear this… or your own underwear.”

And hands me what can only be described as…
a concept of underwear.

Minimal fabric. Maximum confusion.

So naturally… I chose it.

Alizée too.

We look at each other.
Pause.
And just lose it laughing.

Fast forward a couple days later—we’re in the car heading to the beach and I ask Samir:

“So… you guys wore theirs or your own?”

He looks at me like I just asked if water is wet:

“Of course our own.”

Silence.

Then:

“Wait… what did YOU wear?”

Anyway. Still laughing about it.

Massage was incredible though.
10/10. Would question my decisions again.

Lisbon is unfairly good at everything

You go to Lisbon expecting:

• seafood

• pasteis de nata

You don’t expect it to casually dominate:

• pizza

• gelato

• Lebanese food

And yet.

The best pizza I’ve had (yes, really)

🍕 Lupita

I did not expect to write this sentence in my life but:

The best pizza I’ve ever had… was in Lisbon.

We ordered:

• Pepperoni + caramelized onions

• Courgette & burrata

Both illegal levels of good.

Order this: honestly, anything.
Vibe: simple, no nonsense, just excellence

And right across the street…

🍽️ Fabric

This is the kind of place you don’t plan for, but end up loving.

Middle Eastern-leaning, a bit unexpected, very good.

• Arayes → exceptional, mandatory

• Tempura broccolini → also exceptional, mandatory

• Lebanese-inspired schnitzel plate → yes

• Mousse au chocolat → also yes

This whole little area felt… unfairly stacked.

The best gelato I’ve had (also yes, really)

🍨 Niva Gelato

Dense. Rich. Deep flavor.

The kind of gelato where you stop mid-bite and go:

“Wait.”

Pistachio (vegan!) and chocolate (vegan!) were ridiculous.

Order this: pistachio. Don’t overthink it.

Lebanese food… in Lisbon??

🇱🇧 Citron

We did what any self-respecting Lebanese would do: test the local Lebanese scene.

Verdict: shockingly legit.

• Kibbeh: approved

• Fattoush: fresh

• Daoud Bacha: next level (but ask ahead 👀)

Honestly… proud moment. Lisbon really said:

bring your culture, we’ll make it work.

Respect.

The only pastel de nata you need

🍮 Castro

We tested a lot on a previous trip.

Skip the experiments. Just go to Castro.

My record is between me and God.

Bread = happiness

• 🥖 Gleba → elite baguette (excellent for homemade jambon beurre at the beach); open late

• 🥖 Pão de Pastor → seeded loaf = 🔥

Beach days (earned, obviously)

🏖️ Costa da Caparica

About 30 minutes from the city.

We went twice:

• once with friends (beach club vibes at Nuua)

• once just us, long walk, no plan

And yes… we went in the ocean.

Cold.
Refreshing.
Main character energy.

Slow mornings & surfer energy

☕ 🌊 Balagan Ericeira

Coffee. Ocean. Surfers on loop.

This was one of those spots where time just… disappears.

I sat there for a while just watching surfers catch waves,
snapping videos, pretending I understand what makes a “good wave,”
and fully convincing myself I could try this one day.

Order this: coffee + whatever justifies staying longer
Pro tip: don’t rush this one. It’s the whole point.

Cascais: Come for the chicken, stay for the lifestyle

🍗 Jardim dos Frangos

Simple, solid:

• grilled chicken

• fries

• sea bass

But the real moment:

🛥️ Cascais Marina

That walk.

Boats. Sun. Effortless wealth.

You look around and think:

“Yeah… we could live here.”

We can’t.
But for a second, it felt convincing.

If you’re going to Lisbon, steal this

Breakfast: Gleba or Castro
Lunch: Fabric (or whatever’s nearby)
Dinner: Lupita or Citron
Dessert (mandatory): Niva
Sweet backup: Brera
Beach: Caparica (Nuua if you want the full vibe)
Coffee moment: Balagan (stay longer than planned)

Wildcard:
Get the massage.
Bring your own underwear.

📍 One more thing

I pinned all of these spots (and more that we tried and would recommend) into a Google Maps list so you don’t have to think.

👉 Lisboa Google Maps list

The best meals weren’t on the list

For all the places we went to…

The best meals of the trip weren’t at a restaurant.

They were at Samir and Yulia’s.

Samir is known to be a great home chef.
This trip, along with many others, confirmed it.

We got served.

• egg salad

• kafta

• seabass

• salmon

The kind of meals that don’t need a menu or a review, just a table, time, and good company.

If this were a spot I could recommend, it would be at the very top of this list.

But the only way in… is to become friends with Samir and Yulia.

And honestly, that’s the real takeaway.

Not just the food. But the conversations, the laughs, and the time spent around their table in their new home.

Those are the ones we’ll remember most.

10/10. Would recommend. Very hard reservation to get.

No van.
No Louie.

Just Lisbon doing what it does best:
making you stay longer… and eat more than planned.

The 1‑hour pivot

The weather forecast was… suspiciously good. Full, bright sun for the entire weekend. The first time we’d seen that kind of optimism since… what? November?

So naturally, we decided to go out on another winter weekend escape.

We did what any rational Pacific Northwest winter travelers do: we hunted for warmth. Or at least, the illusion of it. Turns out the Olympic Peninsula was the winner. A few degrees warmer.

Yes, we are officially degree‑chasers. (Montreal has trained us over many years.)

Then, one hour before departure, after work, we realized the spot we had our eyes on, Lake Crescent, was closed for the winter.

Closed.

There was a pause. Alizée and I looked at each other in disbelief. And then, in perfect sync, like a rehearsed sketch, together we said:

“Orcas?”

The only issue: it was already 5:30pm, and Orcas requires a ferry. We checked the schedule, bracing for disappointment… and there it was:

Last sailing: 8:45pm.

Game on.

What followed can only be described as the fastest van-pack in recorded history. No chaos. No swearing. Just pure muscle memory. This is the underrated benefit of my slightly unhinged habit of cleaning, refilling, and resetting the van immediately after every trip. We live in a permanent state of “Yalla, bye” readiness.

You could call us on a random Tuesday and say, “Do you want to leave in 30 minutes?”
Odds are… we’d say yes. Slight panic. Immediate yes.

Night ferry, familiar ground

Last time, the ferry involved… feelings.

This time, we were not messing around.

We arrived 40 minutes early, calm but alert, like people who had learned something about themselves. We boarded without drama. No finger-pointing. No last-minute negotiations with the universe.

Just a pitch-black sailing across cold water, the kind where everything goes quiet and your brain finally clocks out.

Orcas greeted us in complete darkness. We drove straight to Moran State Park. Same destination as last time: Mountain Lake campground, just below the little summit of Mount Constitution. Same beloved Spot #130.

At the self check‑in, we noticed something new: The campground was more than half full. A surprise.

Every spot on our side of the loop? Taken.

Every single one.

Except one.

Spot. 130.

Waiting for us. Obviously.

We booked it for two nights, parked the van, and exhaled. Despite more people around than last time, the night was impossibly quiet. Cozy, hushed, the kind of silence that feels intentional.

The gift that changed our nights in the van

Earlier that day, before the ferry, work had surprised me in the best possible way.

It was our team’s annual post-Christmas potluck and gift exchange at a colleague’s home. The kind of workday I wish all workdays were like: real conversations, homemade food, gifts that say “I see you.”

My Secret Santa really saw me.

They gave me battery-powered, reelable string lights.

I didn’t know I needed them. Which, in hindsight, is how you know it’s a perfect gift.

That night, we hung them inside the pop-top. And suddenly, no more headlamps in bed. No harsh, interrogation-level lighting meant for spotting wildlife at 2am during dog walks.

Instead: soft, warm, this-is-a-bedroom light. It was magic.

Now, every time we turn them on, I think of my Secret Santa, and the fact that this tiny upgrade will follow us on countless future escapes.

That’s the best kind of gift.

Saturday: wind, bread & human encounters

We woke up deeply cozy.

Full sun. Blue sky. Also: wind. Serious wind. The kind that reminds you this is still winter, despite how convincing the light is.

We stayed horizontal a little longer. Van cocooning is a skill. 😀

Mount Constitution, take two

The road to the summit was open this time (last trip: icy and very absolutely not).

The views were epic. The kind that resets your brain and quietly suggests lifestyle changes.

And then, because Orcas Island enforces a strict minimum one interesting stranger per day policy → we met Zo.

Former professional circus acrobat who lived in Montreal for a few years (Cirque Du Soleil). Now an arborist on the island.

She overheard us speaking French and casually joined the conversation, in flawless French. She’s American. No big deal.

Turns out circus acrobats make excellent arborists. Agile. Fearless. Very comfortable trimming some of the tallest trees on Earth.

That conversation alone was worth the drive up.

Bakery déjà vu

Next stop: Orcas Bakery.

I am fairly certain I had been dreaming about this place since we left the island last time.

This round:

• One sourdough loaf

• One rye apple galette with crumble

And wow.

The apple slices. The cinnamon. The crumble. But the real magic was the base, not soft, not hard, just right. Almost like packed rye and cornmeal holding everything together with restraint and quiet confidence.

Not overly sweet. Balanced. Thoughtful. Basically: bakery perfection.

We took our loot straight to what is now officially our #1 coffee shop on the island in the US: Dragonfly Coffee.

And there, like a friendly glitch in the matrix, we ran into Sebi (short for: Sebastian) again.

A 25‑year Orcas islander. Big energy. Instantly recognizable.

This time, he was with a friend who’s mute and communicated by writing on a digital pad while Sebi spoke normally. At one point, Sebi came over and asked us to write a short note to him.

So we did.

And then… he wrote back.

The word: “lythe.”

He used it to describe Louie.

Problem: none of us (Sebi, Alizée, or I) had ever heard this word before. And since he was mute… there was absolutely no way for him to tell us how to pronounce it.

We all just stared at it.

Tried different pronunciations.

Laughed. Gave up.

It was perfect. One of those moments that feels impossible to recreate and impossible to forget. We exchanged numbers with Sebi (obviously, we’ll be back), received a surprise gift of pistachios for the road (islanders are just like this), and headed back toward camp.

Lake light & brave neighbors

We went for a gentle one-hour walk along Mountain Lake, right next to the campground, catching the sunset as the light softened and the wind finally relaxed a bit.

Back at the van:

• Dinner

• Cozy mode

• One episode (okay… several) of Nobody Wants This on Netflix

Light, easy humor. A hot blonde podcast host who openly talks about sex, dating, and modern relationships unexpectedly falls for a Rabbi.

Perfect van TV.

Dinner was sandwiches made with our bakery sourdough:

• Jambon

• Beurre salé

• Fromage: Dubliner (or, as Alizée says with great commitment: Dublyyyyyner ❤️)

We also gained new neighbors. Two young mountain‑biking couples. One couple slept outside.

No tent. Just a mattress. Layers of sleeping bags, and full view of the stars.

It was 0°C. With wind. And yet… they slept. Somehow.

Scandinavians do this to babies. Turns out adults can too.

We zipped up our van, turned on our magical new string lights, and felt extremely grateful for walls.

Sunday: eggs, pottery & the gentle exit

Sunday had no agenda.

We woke up slowly. Made coffee. Let the morning stretch.

We packed up and headed west, aiming for a pottery shop that’s been on the island since 1945. It opened at 11am.

Which meant we did everything possible not to arrive before 11am.

Including another stop at the bakery. Focaccia this time. For later. For emotional stability. 😅

Then, danger zone. Two roadside egg stands. Honor system. Fresh eggs.

Anyone who knows me knows this is serious. There was a brief phase of my life where I considered starting a farm‑to‑table egg subscription service.

We bought eggs. Obviously.

The pottery shop was perfect. A small garden. Little cabins. Work from different local artists.

We bought a simple bowl for fruit. A tiny physical memory of what’s becoming our favorite island.

From there, we caught the 1:30pm ferry and made it home before dark.

Back home: clean, refill, reset the van.

Ready for the next impulsive “wait… should we just go?” moment.

A few things we’d 100% do again

• Keep a flexible Plan B (sometimes the best trips start with a closed gate)

• Winter Orcas > summer crowds

• Talk to strangers. Especially the interesting ones

• Buy the small souvenir (bread counts)

Round two confirmed it:

Orcas Island isn’t just a place you visit. It’s a place you quietly start planning your return to.

The exact moment everything went sideways

There’s a very specific moment in squash, about 0.3 seconds before you commit to a heroic lunge, when your brain should politely ask your body:

“Hey… are we still capable of this?”

On December 20th, my brain did not ask.

It assumed.

Four days before our carefully planned van escape to Southern California, I was back at my old squash club, riding a three-day free trial pass and a dangerously optimistic internal monologue titled The Return™. New shoes. Old confidence. Pajama T-shirt pretending to be athletic wear. Life was good.

Then my opponent played a drop shot.

I lunged.

My foot stayed.

My body… did not.

My ankle sent a very clear, very loud message to my brain: absolutely not. Puff. Dizzy. Ice bag. Silence.

Freeze frame.

This, this right here, is the moment our California road trip quietly died.

The comeback tour (cut tragically short)

Let’s rewind a little further.

For context: I’d been wanting to get back into squash for a while. Like, 6+ years kind of a while. Long enough that my muscle memory still remembered what to do, but my tendons absolutely did not. So a few days before our holiday van trip, I went back to my old squash club and asked for a 3-day trial pass. The idea was simple and very adult: ease back into it, see how it feels, and only then decide whether to recommit.

Naturally, this plan did not survive contact with reality.

Day one: rowing machine, solo squash, endorphins everywhere. I even bought new squash shoes that evening, which, looking back, feels like the universe collecting a down payment.

Day two: sore muscles, so I treated myself to what my best friend, Samir, and I used to call “an executive”. Sauna. Shower. Fresh shave. You leave the club feeling like a newborn worth a billion dollars.

Day three: I went all in. Pick-up match. My opponent hesitated (understandably) because I looked like I had wandered in from a sleepover (FYI I wear old, loose T‑shirts that I normally reserve for sleeping as my squash gear. Comfort over credibility.). Within minutes, though, he realized I knew what I was doing.

And then… overconfidence.

I forgot about aging. Forgot about physics. Forgot that tendons keep receipts.

ER realism & RICE (not the comforting kind)

The swelling came fast. By the next day I couldn’t bear weight, so off to the ER we went. X-rays. Waiting. Anxiety math.

Good news: no fracture.

Bad news: likely a grade-3 sprain.

The prescription? RICE and time. Important clarification: not actual rice. Which is unfortunate, because actual rice is comforting and this was not.

• Rest

• Ice

• Compression

• Elevation

RICE is also wildly incompatible with:

• 20 hours of driving

• Van life ergonomics

• Pretending everything is fine

So yes. We cancelled our SoCal trip.

After an intense year at work, the vacation I’d been mentally clinging to evaporated under fluorescent ER lights. FML. But also… yalla, day by day. Let’s not cancel everything.

Four days of religiously following doctor’s orders (plus YouTube physical therapists who whisper encouragement) later, I could tolerate some weight.

We pivoted.

Destination → Orcas Island 🐋

The ferry we missed (and the one we deserved)

I hate alarms. I only set them for flights, which thankfully happen rarely.

Turns out ferries also count.

We woke up at 8:17am. Respectable. Alizée walked Louie. I packed the van. At 10:30am, I punched the ferry terminal into the GPS.

ETA: one minute before departure.

This triggered our patented “who is responsible?” spiral. Was it me? Alizée? Louie?

(It was Louie. Obviously.)

Halfway there, we surrendered. Costco detour. Taylor Farms salads. Snacks. Water refill. Then a picnic at Bowman Bay, because if you miss a ferry, you might as well lean into it.

Mid-afternoon sailing. Front row. Calm water.

By the time we reached Orcas, it was dusk sliding into full darkness.

No audience on Orcas Island in the Winter

Our goal was to reach Moran State Park before nightfall to scope out a campsite.

We did not.

It was pitch black. Silent. Empty. We drove up the Mountain Lake loop and picked site #130 purely on vibes.

Zero degrees Celsius. Flirting with negatives.

Heater on. Cozy achieved. Van theater deployed.

We watched Emily in Paris Rome. Yes, we like it. No, Paris is not that clean. Yes, it will always be the most beautiful city in my eyes.

We fell asleep with the heater blasting… and woke up convinced we were being slow-roasted. Turned it off. Woke up freezing. Eventually negotiated a truce between “sauna” and “ice cave”. Hahahaha

Van life, baby.

Small moments, big quiet

Morning brought sun rays (actual sun) after three straight weeks of PNW rain. The campground was still empty. Not a single soul.

Coffee by the lake. Cold air. Gratitude.

📍 Eastsound:

• Dog park pit stop

• Orcas Bakery (sourdough focaccia, simit, buckwheat cookie - zero regrets)

• A surprise chat with a local realtor who casually mentioned there are 30 friendly realtors on the island (this sentence alone explains Orcas)

Lunch at North Beach: avocado toast on focaccia, calamari, and people-watching.

• A solo kayaker packing for three days around the islands in frigid temperatures

• Two grandmas chatting, coats on, legs dipped into the freezing water like it was nothing

Coffee at Dragonfly. So welcoming, Louie made himself at home on the rug. A must. Seriously, I think it ranks as my top coffee shop in America. So Cozy.

We drove toward Doe Bay, stopped at a local-artists-only gallery, then watched the sunset while chatting with a family stitched across France, Ohio, and Seattle.

Back at the campground: still empty.

I made a fire. We had wine. We talked about honesty. About my almost obsessive pull toward being brutally honest in every part of my life (including work), and how hard it is to find the line where honesty still feels kind and caring, instead of blunt or accidentally hurtful.

We fell asleep to Emily in Paris again.

The ranger, the drone, the view

Morning knock.

It was the park ranger, doing his morning round to check in on park visitors. An activity that, given the circumstances, felt more ceremonial than necessary.

He was friendly and relaxed. And to be clear, this was not an honest oversight.

The first night, I had insisted we pay. The second night, however, we happened to enter the park from the opposite direction, completely bypassing the ranger check‑in booth. Alizée seized the opportunity.

“You had things your way last night,” she said. “Tonight, we’re skipping the pay booth.”

I agreed, but with a condition: “Fine. But we’re 100% getting a wake‑up knock in the morning asking for payment.”

Reader, I have never been more right.

The ranger casually mentioned that we were only his fifth camper in three weeks, which somehow made us feel both special and mildly unsettled. Like, wow, lucky us! immediately followed by wait… why is no one else here?

Sun again. Cold again.

With no one around, I flew the drone for a few shots. Five minutes later, the ranger returned, someone had reported it. No fine. No warning. Just a kind reminder that drones aren’t allowed in state parks.

We drove as high as the icy road allowed to Little Summit, then walked 500 meters to a viewpoint overlooking the San Juan Islands and Mount Baker.

Epic.

Bakery again. This time grabbing pizza sourdough to make pizza at home, because who actually has the patience to make their own sourdough? (If you do, please email me. I have questions.)

We drove south toward Deer Harbor and made lunch by the marina, watching boats gently knock against the docks like they, too, had nowhere urgent to be. It felt like the island quietly exhaling.

With time to spare before the ferry, we stopped at the Orcas Hotel lobby for coffee. Two americanos, warm hands, soft light. The kind of pause that makes you forget what day it is.

And finally, ferry home. Bed. Duvet. Bliss.

What this trip quietly taught us

• Injuries don’t cancel rest. They just reroute it

• Winter islands reward slowness (and punish over-planning)

• Missed ferries sometimes improve the day

• Empty campgrounds hit different

• Heaters require finesse

• You don’t need big adventures to feel reset

Orcas didn’t entertain us.

It didn’t perform.

It just existed quietly, and invited us to do the same.

Yalla, bye. But gently this time. 🚐✨

Trip planning nuggets

• Winter Orcas = minimal crowds, but very short daylight

• Moran State Park is magical year-round, especially when empty

• Local bakeries & coffee shops become winter anchors

• Pack layers (inside the van and emotionally)

If you made it this far, you’re clearly our people.

Subscribe to Yalla, bye for more van misadventures, quiet realizations, and the occasional preventable injury.

I promise: next time, it probably won’t be the ankle.

All the best for 2026 ✌️

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This chapter? It’s the return journey. The express edition. Coast to coast in 5 days, 4 nights, 44 hours of driving. Less adventure, maybe. But plenty of stories, mishaps, and micro-miracles. This was about efficiency… and survival. Buckle up.

Day 1: Leaving home in Montreal → Cambridge, Ontario

🚐 Drove: 6h10 (652 km)

📍 Slept in: Whistle Bare Campground in Cambridge, Ontario

Leaving Montreal hit harder than expected. After a month of family, home cooking, and familiar faces, it felt like being unplugged from warmth. My mom’s foul mdammas had officially become our road trip send-off ritual: warm, garlicky, and filling enough to power the van for the first 300 km. I may have packed emotional baggage, but at least I left with full stomach.

I also spent the morning doing something absurd: attending work meetings and checking emails before a 5,000 km drive. Why? Guilt. That kind of pre-road-trip guilt where you think productivity might cancel out wanderlust. Spoiler: it doesn’t. We left around 2:30 p.m., late but happy, and drove into the sunset.

We reached Whistle Bare Campground just past dark. Not glamorous, but quiet. The kind of place where the loudest sound is your own stretching bones.

(Tip: Don’t overplan day one. Emotionally and physically, it’s the hardest to leave. Aim for 6 hours max.)

Day 2: Cambridge, Ontario → Geneseo, Illinois

🚐 Drove: 8h47 (948 km)

📍 Slept in: Geneseo Campground in Geneseo, Illinois

Border crossing day. Cue the anxiety soundtrack. We rolled up to the U.S. checkpoint rehearsing our answers like actors in a low-budget spy movie.

“Where are you coming from?”
“Canada.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Anything to declare?”
“No.”

That last part? A lie. Technically, we were smuggling enough labneh, mjadra, and zaatar to feed us for 365 days, until our next trip to Montreal.

The border guard stared at me, then repeated the question slower. I broke. “Okay, maybe just snacks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Snacks?”

I nodded like a guilty toddler holding a cookie behind his back. After a dramatic pause, he waved us through. Crisis averted. Or so I thought…

Two seconds later, we were funneled toward what looked like a sci-fi car wash: a full-on X-ray machine! I had never seen one before. A border patrol agent motioned for us to drive through slowly while another stood ahead, arms crossed, waiting for the thumbs-up. My heart was pounding like I’d just drank a week’s worth of espresso. We rolled through the scanner, paused, and watched the agent ahead nod to his partner. Thumbs up. We were clear.

We drove on, relieved and laughing. Nothing to hide, really, but the thought of explaining what zaatar or seven-spice is to a border agent, and why I can’t travel without them, is a conversation I’d happily avoid. So yes, technically innocent, emotionally guilty.

That night, we camped in Geneseo, Illinois - a town so clean and quiet it felt like being inside a Hallmark movie. Fireflies flickered, neighbors waved, and fireworks popped in the distance. Louie wasn’t impressed. I was.

(Pro tip: Always admit to at least trail mix. “No snacks” sounds like a serial killer answer.)

Day 3: Geneseo, Illinois → Chamberlain, South Dakota

🚐 Drove: 8h41 (963 km)

📍 Slept in: American Creek Campground in Chamberlain, South Dakota

We entered the Great Midwest Grind. Eight hours of highway hypnosis and enough windmills to power Beirut.

Twice, I pushed the gas gauge to its spiritual limit, coasting into stations on fumes. The van’s dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree of doom: first the yellow low-fuel light, then a red flashing warning, and finally a polite yet judgmental “0 miles to empty” notification. Every beep felt like the van whispering, “Habibi… really?” Alizée started calling me “the Prophet of Empty Tanks,” half mocking, half impressed that we made it to the station alive.

We powered through this segment of the drive with Mcdonald’s coffee and podcasts. I can’t recall the topics, but I do remember thinking: if Plato had done road trips, he’d have invented podcasting.

We reached Chamberlain just before sunset. The Missouri River shimmered gold. Louie chased smells. I chased silence. The campground: American Creek. Simple but perfect. We ate dinner watching the sky turn from orange to purple. I took a deep breath and realized something wild: we were halfway home.

(Tip: Chamberlain is a hidden gem in South Dakota. Right on the river, clean, calm, and no RV generators humming at 2 a.m.)

Day 4: Chamberlain, South Dakota → Columbus, Montana

🚐 Drove: 8h24 (910 km)

📍 Slept in: Itch-Kep-Pe Park Park & Campground in Columbus, Montana

Woke up to birds, coffee, and a full bladder (Louie’s, not mine). Chamberlain’s morning mist was cinematic, like a slow morning fog in Kartaba, over the Lebanese mountains - soft, golden, and calm, the kind of scene that makes you forget your to‑do list for at least ten minutes.

We hit the road and entered billboard country.

Wall Drug’s billboard bonanza: A Lebanese traveler’s guide to South Dakota’s most persistent neighbors

Now picture this, habibi: you’re driving through the wide-open lands of South Dakota, and suddenly it’s like the whole state is your Lebanese tante who won’t stop offering you more hummus. Every mile, there’s another Wall Drug billboard popping up like it’s saying, “Yalla, come on, you can’t leave without seeing this place!” By the fifth billboard, you feel like you’re practically cousins with Wall Drug.

So here’s a little gallery of those billboard cameos, served up with a dash of Lebanese wink and a smile. After all, if South Dakota wants to roll out the red carpet of billboards, who are we to say no? Yalla, let’s dive in!

By the time we crossed the 200th billboard, we were both laughing and slightly brainwashed. We didn’t stop, but we did salute it from the highway. A respectful nod to South Dakota’s most relentless marketer before pressing on toward Montana.

By late afternoon, we rolled into Columbus, Montana, where we found Itch-Kep-Pe Park. A donation-based campground so nice it felt like a setup. Grassy sites, river access, no one in sight. We showered behind the van in the fading light. Total freedom. Louie approved.

(Tip: Donation-based sites are underrated. Some of the best vibes, least rules, and most honesty you’ll find on the road.)

Day 5: Columbus, Montana → Seattle

🚐 Drove: 11h27 (1,255 km)

📍 Slept in: King-sized bed in Seattle, Washington

The big finale. The home stretch. The “how many more podcasts do we have?” day. We woke up early, drove thru McDonald’s for coffee, and headed west through jaw-dropping scenery.

Somewhere between the third refill and the fifth snack debate, we entered that familiar relationship gray zone - the unspoken sport of couple influence. You know, where each of us starts running a silent campaign to get our way without ever directly saying it.

This time, I went first. I floated the idea casually, pretending it had just occurred to me: “You know, we could stop at Wanapum Lake for one last night… take it easy, enjoy the view, a proper ending.” I said it like it was a public service announcement, not a personal desire.

Alizée, ever the realist, didn’t even blink. She hit me with the silent head tilt - that look that says, habibi, I see exactly what you’re doing. Then she smiled, shook her head, and played her counter card: reason. “Or… we go home, shower in our own bathroom, and sleep in our actual bed. You love that bed, Karl.”

Touché.

What followed was 100 kilometers of subtle negotiations. I kept bringing up how calm the lake would be this time of year. She countered with strategic yawns and comments about how nice it would be to wake up at home.

Louie, diplomatic as ever, stayed neutral. Dozing off, occasionally switching sides in his sleep like Switzerland on wheels.

Finally, I surrendered. “Fine. But only if ChatGPT agrees with you.” We asked. It said, “Go home.” Traitor.

So we did. We crossed back into Washington, stopped at Costco (because rituals are sacred), and finally rolled into our driveway at 8:30 p.m. Louie jumped out, sniffed the grass, and sighed like an old man back in his favorite chair.

(Tip: If you’re debating between one last night of adventure or your own bed, trust the bed. It always wins. But never admit it was your partner’s idea.)

Final thoughts

Five days, four nights, 44 hours of asphalt, caffeine, and mild delusion. It was our fastest coast-to-coast in the van yet. And somehow still beautiful.

If Part 1 was adventure and chaos, Part 2 was flatland philosophy, and Part 3 was the reward level, then Part 4 was discipline disguised as freedom.

If you’re planning your own quick cross-country drive, here’s the formula:

• Pace it: 6–9 hours a day, no more.

• Protect morale: stop for sunsets, coffee, or a good podcast debate.

• Embrace the weird: donation campgrounds, border patrol banter, and billboard hypnosis.

• Reward yourself: end with a home-cooked meal and a long shower.

We did it. Seattle to Montreal and back again. Coast to coast, with heart, humor, and an unreasonable number of zaatar jars.

Yalla, until the next one. ❤️

After prairie purgatory (part 2), crossing into Ontario felt like stumbling into an oasis 🤩. Lakes, cliffs, trees for days, and finally, weather that hinted at summer. Louie perked up. We perked up. And suddenly the trip had rhythm again.

Sleeping Giant Provincial Park

The park gets its name from the giant rock formation on Lake Superior’s Sibley Peninsula, which - when viewed from a distance, looks like a massive figure of a person lying on their back. Head, chest, knees, all outlined against the horizon as if a titan just dozed off there for eternity. It’s both majestic and a little spooky, like Canada’s version of a sleeping myth.

So, we landed at Sleeping Giant Provincial Park, Marie Louise Campground, site 134 - prime real estate. The plan was simple: do nothing but enjoy. Morning brought Lebanese cardamom coffee (thank you, Rifai) and actual summer sunshine. Finally, Canada delivered.

Paddle to the wild side

We paddled (see Strava) across Marie Louise Lake, aiming for a little wild island.

Midway, we spotted something unbelievable: a doe and two fawns swimming from shore to the island. Picture three deer doing laps like Olympic triathletes. It was surreal. I caught a snippet on video, but mostly just stared stupidly.

Middlebrow Bay Trail: Sand Beach on Lake Superior

Later, a ranger tipped us off about a sand beach on Lake Superior. We hiked in (see Strava) and, wawawiwa, what a beach. Long, narrow, golden sand with streaks of red.

Silver Islet

We chatted with a local couple on the beach who insisted we check out nearby Silver Islet, a tiny village that once mined silver 1,300 feet beneath the lake. Off we went: charming cottages, shoreline roads, and a general store straight out of 1880. The owner (whose parents bought it in the ’80s) now runs it with her husband while living upstairs. Ice cream, antiques, and history all crammed into one creaky building. Worth every detour.

Back at camp, we encountered “Yuri”, our intense neighbor doing push-ups beside the communal water tap. When we arrived with dirty dishes, he scolded us in a thick Eastern European accent: “Do you think it’s appropriate to do dishes here?” I replied, “Are you aware of a better place?” He sighed, muttered about food scraps, and we parted ways. Not hostile, just… intense. We nicknamed him Yuri. Every campground has a Yuri. 😅

Lamb, Fire, and a Croissant Moon

That evening I did something rare: started a campfire. I usually avoid them because I hate smelling like smoke in my skin, hair, and beard for days after. But this time, I made an exception. Why? To grill lamb skewers over real wood coals. And they were perfection. Salad, lamb, smoky air - It felt like a mezze table transplanted to Lake Superior. Even I had to admit: fire has its uses.

We capped the night with a moonset like no other: a perfect croissant sliding behind the Sleeping Giant, sky fading from orange to indigo. No camera, just memory. On our walk back, we nearly bumped into a skunk (Louie very much wanted to “make friends”). Thankfully, no spray. Later, lying in the van, I counted more stars than I’ve ever seen, so many it felt like falling into space. If prairies were purgatory, this was heaven. 😇✨

Lake Superior Provincial Park

Birthday day at Agawa

The next day was my birthday, and Ontario brought the party. Our camp neighbor, Rebecca (not her real name, but she looked like one), had chatted with us throughout our stay. That morning she shouted across the campground: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” so loud the whole loop knew. Then she handed me a box of Joe Louis cakes (the Canadian childhood snack to end all snacks). Her joy was contagious. Honestly, that box of Joe Louis meant more than any fancy gift.

We spent the rest of the day driving along Lake Superior’s endless shore. Hours of coastal jungle vibes, waves crashing like an inland ocean.

Beautiful, but long. It took nine full hours to drive from one end of the Lake to the other. Nine!!! Later a park ranger told us it’s the largest freshwater lake in the world, twice the size of Switzerland, often called an inland sea. Wow… By the time we reached Agawa Campground, we were ready to collapse. Still, birthday Joe Louis in hand, I felt celebrated.

Algonquin Provincial Park

Showers: the final boss at Lake of Two Rivers

Our last stop before Montreal: Algonquin Provincial Park, Lake of Two Rivers Campground. Ontario deserves serious praise here: its provincial parks are arguably the best I’ve experienced anywhere. Better than national parks in both Canada and the US, and cleaner, better equipped, and more welcoming than any provincial or state park I’ve visited. Showers? Always free, hot, and spotless. Algonquin’s showers, though, were the final boss. Too hot, too powerful. 😬 Cover-your-genitals (kind of hot) or risk annihilation. We stumbled out laughing, half burned, half bruised, fully clean.

Dinner was simple. Morning hike (see Strava) was a “1 hour boardwalk” we finished in 17 minutes because Louie was on turbo mode 😅. Algonquin is famous for its epic paddle spots, but rain kept us grounded this time. As we drove east toward Montreal, a pit stop revealed a wicked overlanding rig. Straight out of a military convoy but licensed in England and outfitted for family life. We chatted with the kind owners, traveling with their two daughters at the tail end of a year-long North American adventure. Encounters like these kept the drive alive. And then… Montreal awaited.

Montreal Homecoming

Family, Friends, and Cake

Rolling into Montreal came with the warmest welcome of all: my family, especially my niece Noor, who had prepared a homemade cake to celebrate my birthday properly. After weeks of camp food and gas-station snacks, her cake felt like Michelin-star dining. Beyond the sugar rush, it was grounding to be back in the city where I spent the most formative chapters of my life. But the real reward wasn’t the streets or the skyline. It was reconnecting with friends and family. Coffee dates, late-night drinks, skateboard laps, inline skating sessions… the little things that reminded me why coming home matters more than any campground view.

Planning jewels (save these!)

• Paddle Sleeping Giant early; afternoons get windy.

• Silver Islet general store is worth the detour.

• Ontario provincial parks = best parks and showers in North America.

• On long drives, break morale slumps with a birthday cake surprise. (Thanks, Rebecca. 😅)

Closing wink

And that’s a wrap for Part 3, and the whole mini-series (for now). From cold nights in the Rockies, to Prairie Purgatory podcasts, to Ontario’s reward level of lakes, lamb skewers, and final boss showers, this journey from Seattle to Montreal has been unforgettable.

Depending on how interesting the speedy return on the I‑90 (US side of the border) turns out, there might be a Part 4. Either way, thank you for riding along, for reading, and for sharing these stories with friends. ❤️

Yalla, until the next adventure!

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Now, fair warning: this part might come across as more boring than others, because crossing Saskatchewan and Manitoba was… well, BORING AF. Long flat roads, endless fields, wind slapping us sideways, and surprise encounters. Honestly, if teleportation were an option, we’d have jumped straight from Alberta to Ontario. Hahaha. But hamdella, the prairies still gave us stories worth telling. And if ever you’re tempted to click away, stay with me, because tucked between the flat fields are some golden podcast episode recommendations, with TLDRs so good they make this story worth the read on their own.

Elk Island National Park

Laundry, Bisons, and Blue Algae

We left Jasper on a cold morning. Louie had peed on his blanket overnight (lake water overload?) and we desperately needed a laundromat. As we rolled out of the park gates, a mountain goat stood by the roadside, almost waving us goodbye. We’d been hoping to see one the entire trip. Turns out it was just waiting for us at the exit. Hahaha.

By midday we had conquered Costco, fueled up, and discovered the joy of Canadian laundromats - my very first time ever in one! It looked exactly like in the movies: humming machines, bright lights, a whiff of detergent in the air. And honestly? The experience was surprisingly good and efficient. 24 minutes to wash, 40 minutes to dry. Enough time for groceries and a Louie walk. Efficiency ya zalameh!

Driving into Elk Island National Park, we were greeted by solitary bisons chomping roadside grass, massive and calm like zen monks.

Our campsite at Astotin Lake was lovely… until signs warned of dangerous blue‑green algae (aka the neon‑green villain of summer lakes. Actually cyanobacteria that can release toxins harmful to pets, people, and your paddleboard session if you’re unlucky. See picture below). So much for paddling… Cold weather + algae = no swims, only hikes. Nature was trolling us. We sat in the van, rain hammering the roof, chatting with friends on WhatsApp. Romance!

The next morning, sunshine! Yay! We hiked the shoreline loop, Louie trotting proudly ahead, before settling for brunch by the beach: labneh, zaatar, tomatoes, toasted bread.

Tim & Loi: joy at the picnic table

That’s when Tim and Loi appeared. An elderly couple from a local senior residence outing.

Tim explained their residence offers just one outing a month for $5: one hour in the park to breathe fresh air before being shepherded to Dairy Queen for ice cream, then back home. I found myself thinking one hour was too little, and nearly said to them, ‘Come with us for the day, I’ll drop you back at night!’ Tim radiated joy, striking up conversations with everyone passing by. He told us: “In Chinese culture, one dog year equals ten human years.” Then (randomly) he urged us to have kids, only to admit he never had any himself. He laughed it off, joined his group for Dairy Queen, and left us reflecting: sometimes joy is a choice, kids or no kids. (And truthfully, thanks to Tim, Alizée and I revisited the egg-freezing conversation we’d had many times before: kids may not be our thing, but we want to keep the option open for the future. We even booked an appointment back in Seattle for October. Why mention it here? Because it matters. Like us, more and more people our age are deferring or skipping the choice, and that’s fine, but giving (y)ourself the option is also important). Ya3ni, this man was a legend.

Great Blue Heron Provincial Park

Solitude, then fiesta

From Alberta into Saskatchewan: six hours of prairie driving, broken only by podcasts and random clouds. Arrival reward: Murray Point Campground at Great Blue Heron Provincial Park. We had an entire loop in the campground to ourselves! Plus three deer (a mama and two fawns) waiting at our site like Airbnb hosts.

Silence, forest, perfect dinner. Until midnight when our distant neighbors (sounded Russian, might’ve been DJs) launched a fiesta until 1:30 a.m. One guy finally yelled “enough!” in the dark. Saskatchewan nightlife, folks.

🚐 Podcasts & Prairie Wisdom

Hours on prairie highways will test anyone’s patience. Thank goodness for podcasts. We binged one episode of LEGEND about a French ambulance driver’s most improbable interventions! Chaotic, hilarious, a perfect distraction. Then came a health deep‑dive on The Diary of a CEO with Dr. Rhonda Patrick that had us both nodding like eager med students. TLDR (because every road trip needs a cliff notes version):

• Vitamin D is non‑negotiable

• Omega‑3 is cleaner in supplement form than fish

• Creatine actually helps the brain (not just the muscles)

• Intermittent fasting works

• Magnesium powers 300 enzymes

• Pregnant? Eat eggs. Lots of them.

By the end we were half‑convinced we’d cracked the code to eternal youth. Or at least to not aging like expired labneh. Hahaha! No, seriously. I highly recommend this episode. Listen to it!

Riding Mountain National Park

‘Yes Theory’ in the wild

Morning brought van cleaning, water refill, and another long drive east. Somewhere in Saskatchewan a guy spotted our “Made for Dreamers” bumper sticker and my Yes Theory hoodie. “Seek Discomfort!” he shouted. His name was Matt from Saskatoon, kindred spirit. These tiny moments broke the monotony.

Seven hours later we landed at Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba. Wasagaming campground felt like a posh lakeside club: cottages, tennis courts, even padel. While walking Louie along the shore, we met a kind lady with two whippets who shared fascinating insights: the cottages are privately owned, but the land itself is leased from the federal government and often passed down through generations. It gave the whole place a bit of a Club Med‑meets‑heritage vibe. We marveled at how national parks can morph into mini‑resorts. Rain returned, of course.

Whiteshell Provincial Park

Meteor lake & Louie’s chicken heart test

Our last prairie stop: Whiteshell Provincial Park. Campsite A3 sat right on a rocky meteor-made lake, 100 million years old.

Alizée wanted a celebratory beer, so we split a mango Blue Moon from the convenience store.. our wild night out. Dinner? Dates stuffed with Gruyère and Dubliner cheese. Trust me, sweet + savory = bliss.

Later that night, Louie was passed out cold. I decided to spice things up and test his loyalty by waving food under his nose while he was deep asleep 😅: Gruyère? No reaction. Freeze‑dried chicken hearts? Instant wake‑up, eyes wide, nose twitching. Science confirms: chicken hearts > all. It was hilarious, check out the video below.

Planning Jewels (they’re a bit light for this part)

• Long drive survival: pre‑load 2–3 stellar podcasts; it’s brain fuel for flatland purgatory.

• Blue‑green algae = no swims, but great excuse to hike more.

Closing Wink

Saskatchewan and Manitoba tested our patience with its flat roads (forever), but gave us Tim, Loi, Matt, and midnight fiestas. Between bisons, meteor lakes, Louie’s chicken‑heart loyalty test, and podcast epiphanies about how not to age like stale pita, the prairies proved that even purgatory has its charms. Still… if Canada ever opens an Alberta‑to‑Ontario express lane, we’ll be first in line 😅. Next stop: Ontario, ya habibi.

We’d been hyping this trip for three months. Work had been brutal. Back-to-back meetings, deadlines stacked like kaak at a Beirut bakery, and both of us knew: we needed out. Nature was prescribed. This was no weekend escape. This was the big one: Seattle to Montreal, cross-country, but this time on the Canadian side of the border. Every night was plotted at a national or provincial park, every stop carefully pinned on the map, and every campground booked months in advance. The grand design? Lakes. Always lakes. The idea was to battle August heat with swims, SUPs, and kayak dips - Louie cooling his paws in the water while we pretended to be semi-pro paddlers. That was the plan. Ya zalameh, we were dreaming of summer sweat and dips in cold water. Instead, Canada said: “Welcome, habibi. Here’s 6°C nights and a cold bubble that will chase you for two weeks”.

Paul Lake Provincial Park (BC)

The soft launch (Seattle → Paul Lake)

Departure day always comes with a mix of anxiety and excitement. We packed the van, double-triple-quadruple checked everything (including my mental stability), gave our home one last loving look, and hit the road around 11am. Border crossing? Smooth. Though for the first time ever, the agent asked for Louie’s rabies certificate. Luckily, I had it stored like a true Lebanese mom packs za’atar: always ready.

First stop? A patriotic combo: Tim Hortons (for caffeine) and Costco (for 4 kilos of hummus we absolutely didn’t need).

Paul Lake Campground was a dream for a first night. Site 62, slightly elevated and quiet.

We hiked down to the lake, let Louie off leash (after some gentle marital negotiations), and soaked in that first evening in nature. No showers, but the silence made up for it. Even the deer waved goodbye the next morning. Well, kinda. Louie didn’t even notice. Classic.

Emerald Lake (Yoho National Park)

Tourists in the lot, silence on the Trail (Paul Lake, BC → Emerald Lake, BC)

Day two brought Revelstoke eggs and sourdough bread (delicious), then the stunner: Emerald Lake. Parking lot? Absolute mayhem. Buses, picnics, selfie sticks. Trail? Empty. We realized Canadian National Parks obey a strange physics: 90% of humans orbit the visitor center, while 10 minutes into the trail you’re suddenly alone. We looped the lake, admired its surreal turquoise, and whispered a new family motto: “Walk 15 minutes away from the lodge and you own the place”.

Bow Lake (Banff National Park)

The paparazzi paddle

Spoiler: we didn’t paddle Lake Louise. We didn’t even see it. The parking lot was full by 9 am, and taking a shuttle felt like a betrayal to van life.

So we pivoted north: Bow Lake. Epic.

At first, Bow Lake was serene, then, out of nowhere, busloads of tourists appeared like a flash mob of pastel North Face jackets. But again, the water was empty. So we paddled. As we inflated the kayak and SUP, we became Beyoncé and Jay‑Z on a yacht - minus the yacht, plus 200 tourists with selfie sticks. Louie onboard, me paddling like a champ, Alizée laughing - while 200 tourists filmed us from shore like paparazzi (no joke, check out the video below!). They watched us like zoo animals. One guy might have live-streamed us to his aunt in Shanghai. Hahaha. The joke was on them: out on the lake, it was pure magic. Glacial turquoise, mountain mirrors, total silence.

Pro tip: glacier lakes are best before 11 am. Wind naps in the morning, wakes up angry by lunch.

Waterfowl & Peyto Lakes

Chocolate and serendipity

Next up: Waterfowl Lake. Gorgeous picnic spot. We found a tucked-away nook at the southern tip where we made coffee and devoured chocolate like it was our birthright.

Then: Peyto Lake hike. Beautiful and, once again, empty beyond 15 minutes from the lot. Lesson: tourists don’t hike, they hover.

Next to us at the parking lot of Peyto lake: a Sprinter rig with French license plates. Of course we had to say hi. Mireille and Thierry, retired, touring the Americas for 18 months. Legends. We invited them to dinner at our Lake Louise campsite: they made pasta, we added salad, sourdough, and Gruyère (the holy trinity). Stories stretched past 11 p.m. Instant friends. This, we agreed, is the secret sauce of road trips: the people.

Jasper National Park

Fire aftermath and Elon (not that one)

The next morning we hit the road for Jasper. First, we had breakfast by a creek. Eggs on sourdough. The kind of meal that makes you say, "why don't we live like this all the time?"

Then: hiked Wilcox Pass. Offered to take a photo for a German couple (because we’re not monsters), and they offered us a smile in return (and a photo 😉).

On the way north, we did the waterfall rounds (Sunwapta and Athabasca). Alizée confessed she finds waterfalls stressful: “They feel like slow-motion drowning.” Fair.

The real gut punch was Jasper’s burn scar. Kilometers of dead trees, a whole valley erased. Sobering. I asked a ranger about last year’s wildfire - she got emotional. We rolled into camp heavy-hearted. But then came Elon, from South Africa. Not Musk. This Elon was the anti-Musk: cheerful, curious, gushing over our van, insisting proudly he drives below the speed limit. May we all channel Jasper Elon (unfortunately, I forgot to ask for a picture with him…)

Maligne Lake (Jasper National Park)

Deer or mafia enforcer?

We hiked Upper Moose Loop at Maligne Lake. No moose. Instead, one deer. A very serious deer.

It blocked our path, trailed us, got within two meters, and stared like it was collecting debts. Louie growled, I stomped and shouted, Alizée while calm at first started getting nervous (check out the video below!). Ten minutes of standoff before it backed off. I told Alizée: good practice for bears. She rolled her eyes, dripping wet from the rain that soaked us on the last stretch.

Pro tip: practice your “bear encounter protocol” on angry deer. It’s a free simulation.

On the way back to camp we stopped for a quick hike at Talbot Lake Viewpoint. The views were epic to say the least, with the highway splitting Jasper and Talbot lakes right in the middle.

Later that night, I wandered over to a French family across from our camp site who was road-tripping in a Rubicon with two rooftop tents: three grown kids and their mom, moving around camp like a perfectly choreographed unit. I struck up a conversation with the eldest, Antonin, who had organized the entire two‑week adventure for his family. He was kind and thoughtful. Watching them cook, organize, and laugh together felt like a scene straight out of a French movie.

Honestly, they reminded me of the Kretz family from The Parisian Agency: stylish, capable, and somehow making overlanding look chic. Antonin mentioned that they spotted a grizzly earlier that day, without bear spray. Bravery, or madness? Either way, it made our deer story feel like kindergarten 😅

Planning jewels (save these!)

• On the way to Banff, don’t forget Yoho National Park and Emerald Lake.

• Skip Lake Louise’s shuttle; Bow, Waterfowl, and Peyto are better and freer.

• Glacier lakes? Paddle before 11 am. Afternoons = wind gym.

• Walk 15 minutes past the lookout and the crowds vanish.

• Deer can be jerks. Bear spray isn’t just for bears. Never leave it behind you.

Closing wink

By the end of week one, the “cold bubble” had earned its place as our fourth travel companion. Nights in August at 6°C?! Louie, wrapped like a shawarma, was secretly grateful. Us? Shivering but stubborn. Still, between Bow Lake paparazzi, Gruyère-fueled dinners, and the magic of meeting strangers, the Rockies had worked their spell. The bubble hadn’t won yet.

Next up: the Prairies. Saskatchewan and Manitoba (aka Prairie Purgatory, hahaha). Or as Alizée and I started calling it: the part we’d teleport over if we could. Stay tuned for part 2.

Yalla, bye! ✌️

We left Seattle on July 3rd. A full day before America’s sparkly firework-fest. For the unfamiliar: July 4th means barbecues, parades, and (unnecessary) explosions that scare the heck out of every dog in the country. Louie included. We’ve learned the best way to survive is to flee. North.

But on the night of July 2nd, as I was getting the van ready, I realized I’d left the water pump on since our last trip. Three. Weeks. Ago. The battery? Toasted. Ya 3ayb el shoum! (Translates to “Shame on me!”. A phrase your mom might say when you forget to call her back.) Instead of a calm night of prep, I found myself elbow-deep in wires, headlamp on, trying to resuscitate the van’s electrical system like a mad scientist with a voltage fetish. It was midnight by the time I finished packing. Sleep? Ma fi. (Lebanese for “none”.)

We were up early the next morning to cross the border and make a quick pit stop at Decathlon to pick up a new ultra-compact SUP I had ordered. Oh and if you're wondering what Decathlon is, it's a French outdoor megastore I’m deeply obsessed with. Think IKEA for campers, but everything folds, inflates, or clips onto a backpack. I went in for a SUP and walked out with four things. Self-control? Ma fi.

We caught the 12:45pm ferry and somehow scored front-row placement - first car on, right at the nose, full oceanfront view. It should’ve been glorious, but I spent most of the ride crouched in the back, testing voltages, checking current draw, and muttering to the battery like it owed me rent. Spoiler: it’s toast. Warranty email sent.

On the island, we hit Costco to stock up on our favorite “only-in-Canada” snacks, then rolled into Sproat Lake Provincial Park. Site 40. Louie got a dip, we cooked dinner, and just as we were settling in, a park ranger strolled over with a smile and a warm welcome, no citation clipboard in sight.

Alizée and I looked at each other like, “What planet is this?”

(No offense American rangers, you’re great too. But usually you show up when someone lit something on fire or got caught flying a drone where they definitely shouldn’t have been.)

Day 2: The road to Tofino (eventually)

Slept like rocks. Woke up fresh. Took the ranger’s advice and headed to Taylor Arm Provincial Park. Crystal water, zero people, paddled for hours (shukran to the ranger for the tip).

Then we hit the road west to Tofino. What should’ve been a one-hour drive became three thanks to every waterfall and creek along Kennedy River begging us to stop. Some we pinned. Others? Too secret to share here (DM me).

Lunch was at a “rest stop” (Taylor River) that looked more like a curated picnic experience from your Instagram feed.

In Tofino, we rewarded ourselves with a beer flight at Tofino Brewing, including their famous Kelp Stout. Kelp in beer? Sounds suspicious, tastes like magic. We posted up in their sunny, dog-friendly patio, Louie lounging like a regular.

Eventually made it to Long Beach Campground, where we claimed site #37 and took the holy grail of vanlife luxuries: a hot shower. Dinner. Stars. Bed. Bliss.

Day 3: Coffee, kind strangers & a paw-powered detour

Started with coffee at MAQ Café. A dog-friendly hotel with a sunny patio and great views. Highly recommend it, but be warned: the café shuts down at noon sharp, so don’t show up dreaming of an afternoon espresso. Met a fellow Seattleite in town for surf lessons who got grilled at the Canadian border. Alizée and I smirked: welcome to our world (and everyone who isn’t an American citizen and has had the joy of getting grilled by US border patrol like a fugitive trying to smuggle a suitcase full of labneh.)

We hiked the Tonquin Trail to Mackenzie Beach, where we chatted with a sweet couple from Toronto. They were incredibly kind, and we ended up walking the entire trail back and forth together. At one point, I turned to Alizée and said, “I hope when we’re their age, we still have the same energy and desire for adventure that we have today.”

After finishing the Tonquin Trail, we drove over to the Willowbrae Trail. Our next planned hike for the day. But Louie had other plans. Just ten minutes in, he threw an unambiguous U-turn. No limping, no whining. Just a firm, full-body veto. He was clearly done with pebbled paths for the day. With his ultra-sensitive paw pads, we figured it wasn’t worth pushing it. We turned around and followed his lead.

Silver lining? We found South Beach nearby. A stunning, endless stretch of sand. Walked two hours. Louie happy. Us too.

Day 4: A stone is born (in me)

2am. I wake up. My kidneys decided to spice things up. At first, I thought it was trapped gas. I did what any hopeful human would: tried to let out a few discreet farts and said a quick prayer to Saint Charbel for relief. But nope… the pain didn’t leave. It stayed. And then it amplified. Ya 3einéh!

It felt like trying to shove a LEGO piece through a coffee straw. A pain so sharp, so sudden, I genuinely thought: this is it. This is how I go. Take me now. I’ve lived a good life. I’ve eaten my za’atar.

We scrambled to pack up the van. Alizée did most of it like a boss while I barked instructions in between moans and dramatic gasps. She drove the van (her first time!) while I, at one point, asked her to pull over so I could puke from pain. Twice.

At the ER, I collapsed on the check-in floor like I was auditioning for a medical drama. Groaning. Sweating. Vomiting.

The nurse took one look and said, “Let’s get him something, fast.”

Dr. Marsden, a kind man with the calm of a Buddhist monk and the humor of a dad, got me hooked up to fluids and pain meds. He asked if I worked in healthcare because I used such specific language. I told him I just Google a lot and I’m dramatic by nature, and borderline hypochondriac.

Turns out, I was passing a kidney stone. Five days later, I still am. For the uninitiated: it’s when your kidney decides to manufacture a spiky little rock for no reason, and then sends it down your urinary tract like it’s auditioning for Ninja Turtles. The pain? Off the charts. Like someone trying to floss your organs with barbed wire dipped in tabasco.

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I left with two pee strainers (adorable), a $1330 bill (less adorable, but hey! A steep discount relative to what I would've pained in the US), and strict instructions to keep drinking water and wait for the stone to exit. No timeline. No control. Just vibes. And by vibes, I mean waves of excruciating, unpredictable pain.

I was discharged. We headed back to camp for rest. Ice cream at Tofino Licks helped lift the mood. Long Beach walk. I carried my strainer like a badge of honor.

Day 5: Chill, paddle, repeat (with flare-ups)

Despite another midnight flare-up, I got real sleep. We returned to Sproat Lake for one last beach day. 27°C. Sunny. Perfect.

Launched the kayak and SUP… then pain hit mid-lake. I paddled back breathing like I was in labor. Recovered. Tried again. But our 8-year-old kayak? Popped a seam. RIP.

Louie, unbothered, made himself at home on our neighbor’s towel. Which gave me a perfect excuse to chat. She was a paramedic. We ended up talking healthcare, US/Canada differences, and how Americans are currently viewed up north. Spoiler: not great. Boycotts are real. People avoiding the border? Real.

As a Canadian, it made me both sad and proud. I’ve always loved Canada, but this trip, the patriotism was everywhere. Bumpers, grocery labels, beach towels, hats. So many maple leaves. And I loved it.

That evening I called my parents. Asked if kidney stones ran in the family. Their response? “BOHSLE?? Of course!” (“Bohsle” is our word for kidney stone in Lebanon. Simple. Blunt. And every bit as uncomfortable as it sounds.)

Turns out my grandfather and uncle were basically crystal factories.

So now I know. And I hope this was my one and only artisanal kidney gem.

Takeaways & trip planning jewels 💎

• Sproat Lake Provincial Park = peaceful, perfectly placed between Nanaimo ferry and Tofino

• Taylor Arm Provincial Park = crystal clear paddling gem

• Kennedy River = full of unmarked roadside creeks. Keep your eyes peeled and don’t be afraid to pull over and explore.

• Tofino Brewing = get the Kelp Stout, thank me later

• Kidney stones = do not recommend

Yalla, bye! Until the next one. ✌️

P.S. If van life isn’t your only thing - same! I write about product management (with a sense of humor) over at Ship Happens 🚀 and I also share Alizée’s ridiculously delicious sweet recipes on Her Recipes 🥐. Give those a look if you're hungry for more.

The blog’s been quiet, I know. But listen… no adventure, no story. That’s the deal. But now we’re back, ya habibi. And we’re warming up the wheels with one of our PNW faves: Baker Lake. The perfect low-lift, high-reward destination to remember how to be people who do things outdoors.

Quick note before we dive in

I recently switched blogging platforms from Exposure to Substack to streamline my publishing flow and centralize all my writing in one place. The transition should be seamless on your end. Same Karl, same stories, same vibe, just a new home base. Exposure was great to us for years, but since I now have a couple of other publications already on Substack, and I’ll need to write and post more often while on the road, it made sense to consolidate everything. Substack makes it easier for me to publish right from my phone, which means more stories, more often, with less friction.

While you're here, feel free to check out my two other publications:

• Her Recipes 🥐 delicious sweet recipes from , seasoned with stories and a sprinkle of chaos.

• Ship Happens 🚀 stories from the product trenches, where building stuff gets delightfully messy.

Alright, enough admin. Let's get back to the real story.

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The Friday night escape

We left around 8pm. Later than we wanted, obviously, because we’re us, and made a strategic pit stop at Grocery Outlet. If you know, you know. Where else can you find the holy trinity of road snacks: Taylor Farms salad, a bottle of Pinot, and the latest cheese dip that tastes like whipped Boursin blessed by a cloud and cracked peppercorn?

The sunset on the way north was showing off. Orange, pink, and then full-on flame red, like the sky was saying, “Yalla, you made it. Welcome back.”

We landed at Park Creek Campground, site #5, just after 10:30pm. We popped the top, watched half an episode of The Studio, and dozed off to our neighbor’s 90s playlist and a sky full of stars. Honestly, could’ve been worse.

Saturday: Louie the alarm clock

Things started early. Like 5:30am early. Louie decided today was the day to play “I need to pee” every 10 minutes. Snooze-button-style. I swear the dog was trolling us. Thankfully, Alizée took one for the team and walked him, while I, heroically, stayed in bed being useless.

Later, in more caffeinated spirits, we filmed our morning coffee ritual. Me with my new mic and camera setup, Alizée directing. First time I filmed something without a real plan. Felt weird. Felt good. Felt like I might be slowly turning into a YouTuber who says “what’s up guys” before making espresso in the forest.

Then we packed up and drove to Horseshoe Cove, our launch point for the kayak and SUP. Mirror-like water, no crowds, and zero wind. Bliss.

Until I tripped.

Picture this: I’m carrying Louie to place him in the kayak with Alizée (he’s got the legs of a supermodel and the chest of a powerlifter, but zero sense of balance when being carried). I trip. We both fall. Onto my SUP. Classic. But like true men of the mountain, we brushed it off and got on with our day. Alizée even went for a swim. I stayed dry and dignified. Water temp? Less cold than expected. Still… cold enough to make you think twice.

Later, we did a short hike around the lake, came back, and set up for apéro: wine, crackers, and cheese under the sun. Except this time, we had a new toy: the Kelty Highroad awning.

Let me tell you. This thing is a game-changer. Easy to set up. Packs small. Shields you from the sun. And… surprise bonus use case: naked showers. Yes, we embraced full off-grid camping vibes—improvised, practical, and just shy of scandalous. Zero shame, max efficiency. Kelty, if you're reading this, sponsor us. We’re basically brand ambassadors at this point.

Dinner was a “Kevin’s” pouch special (those pre-cooked protein meals) jazzed up with frozen veggies and cauliflower rice. We dined like dehydrated royalty and passed out without even pressing play on The Studio (that show we started the prior evening).

Sunday: a mirror lake and a dog paddle

Another restless night, but this time not because of Louie. Could’ve been the warm temps. Could’ve been the extra blanket. Could’ve just been van life vibes.

We had our coffee (round two of the “morning content creation”), then rolled out to Swift Creek Campground to launch again. Last year, this was our spot. And just like last year, we had the entire lake to ourselves at 9:30am. Everyone else was still messing with their sausage links and hashbrowns.

We paddled out for a 2.5-hour loop. At the halfway point, we all jumped in. Louie included. Well, “jumped” is generous. I… gently encouraged him. He swam, yes. But it looked like only his front paws got the memo. His back half? Frozen in place like an inflatable mattress. It was hilarious, and also the perfect cool-down from the 28°C sun.

One of my favorite things about Baker Lake is the fallen trees in the water, many of which float so far out they become floating islands, sprouting new growth like nature’s weird little comeback story. It’s peaceful. Poetic. And also very photogenic, if you’re into that kind of thing.

After drying off, we devoured a Taylor Farms sweet chili mango salad, then drove to Boulder Creek Campground so I could finally shoot the drone clip I’ve been dreaming of for a year: a flyover of the creek, under the bridge, and into the glory of Mount Baker. Boom. Captured.

Right before taking off, we chatted with two older gentlemen who had just arrived for the week. They asked us for tips, and it made me smile, thinking that one day, inshallah, Alizée and I will still be rolling up to campsites in our 70s, giving our version of vanlife tips to the next wave of campers.

The reset ritual

Drive home was uneventful, save for a sprinkle of traffic that we tamed with a good podcast. And just like every trip, I ended it with the sacred van reset ritual: clean the fridge, vacuum, refill water tanks, wipe down surfaces. Why? Because when the next adventure calls, we want zero friction. Yalla, ready when you are.

🚐 Trip planning jewels:

• Campground: Park Creek (Site #5) – quiet, starry, and 90s-music adjacent.

• Kayak/SUP launch points: Horseshoe Cove (nice beach and swim) and Swift Creek (spacious, excellent for early birds).

• Must-pack: Kelty Highroad Awning – shade by day, shower screen by evening. Inflatable SUP and kayak – perfect for taking advantage of the calm water and unreal views of Mount Baker from the lake.

• Snack staples: Grocery Outlet surprise dips + Kevin’s pouch + Taylor Farms anything 🥗.

• Dog owner note: Baker is very dog-friendly, but be ready for 5:30am potty loop 😅.

• Pro tip: End every trip with a van reset. It’s the difference between “ehh maybe not this weekend” and “Yalla, let’s go!”

• Hikes:

  • Bayview Loop Trail – Easy, scenic loop trail. Dog- and kid-friendly. Great for a mellow leg-stretcher.

  • Anderson and Watson Lakes Trail – Moderate hike with stunning views. Not ideal for pups or young kids. We hiked it last year. Read our full story here.

Next stop? We’ve got a few big ones lined up… including a cross-country road trip 👀 But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, we’re just happy to be back.

Yalla, bye.

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The unexpected Christmas detour

We drove around desperately for about an hour, visiting three privately run campgrounds that were either closed or full for the night. Exhaustion was setting in, tensions were high, and my brain was already catastrophizing. I could picture it: Louie pacing, me heating up a can of chickpeas over a lighter, and Alizée trying to convince me that this was all part of the adventure. At some point I think I mumbled, “This is how Lebanese legends are born… lost in a forest, fueled by stubbornness and hummus”.

Finally, we decided to head deeper into the darkness toward San Bernardino National Forest—imagine us navigating winding mountain roads in pitch black, surrounded by nothing but the occasional, sketchy camper rig that looked straight out of a Breaking Bad episode—shi bi khawif! (which roughly means “straight up terrifying!” in Lebanese). Our destination was Bonita Ranch Campground, which their website promised was open and had available sites. After a tense drive and a significant climb in elevation (meaning it was now freezing cold), we arrived. Would we recommend Bonita Ranch? Honestly, no—but it got the job done. We quickly set up, shut everything down, and woke up early to jet toward warmer, less bleak scenery. Not exactly the cozy Christmas nightcap we’d envisioned—but hey, memorable nonetheless.

Palm Springs oasis 🌴

Thursday morning, December 26, we arrived in Palm Springs and checked into Happy Traveller RV Park—a centrally located oasis with manicured palms, a pool, and plenty of retirees living their best lives. It felt humorously bougie compared to our modest setup—just us, a pop-top van, and a folding camp table trying to blend in among massive RVs with satellite dishes and string lights—ya latif! (That’s our Lebanese way of expressing disbelief, shock, or embarrassment—all of which felt fitting in that moment.) We looked like we showed up to a Lebanese wedding in flip-flops—but we loved every second of it.

Later, we explored Palm Springs and enjoyed drinks and appetizers at Boozehounds.

Boozehounds—a dog-friendly restaurant with the playful motto "where dogs bring their humans." From a full gourmet menu dedicated to pups to the bold, heartwarming wall message: "Be the person your dog thinks you are," this place was a total gem. Whether you’ve got a furry friend or not, it’s well worth a stop.

Afterward, we lucked out—it just so happened to be Thursday, meaning we were perfectly timed to wander through Palm Springs' vibrant weekly street fair. The lively atmosphere, local vendors, and festive energy made for the perfect end to an already amazing day.

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Joshua Tree & the Ramen surprise

On Friday, while Alizée wrapped up an illustration for a stand-up comedian (a proud milestone just one year into her freelance journey!), I soaked up the sun and wandered the streets of Palm Springs with Louie. Later, we set off to explore Joshua Tree National Park, marveling at iconic sites like Hidden Valley and Keys View.

Visiting national parks with a dog isn’t ideal—most trails don’t allow dogs, so we ended up cruising between sites by car and walking Louie through parking lots. Hahaha. Still, we soaked in stunning desert vistas and appreciated the park’s namesake trees—those wild, spiky silhouettes that look like they were doodled by a sleep-deprived cartoonist. Poor Louie looked at me like I told him he can’t eat kibbeh ever again. Ya haram! (For the uninitiated, kibbeh is a beloved Lebanese dish made of bulgur, minced onions, and finely ground meat—basically, Louie’s dream dinner (minus the onions) if he had a say!)

Once done with Joshua Tree, we made our way to our second-ever Harvest Host stay (Mineral Spring Date Farm), and it was another slam dunk: a date farm oasis scattered with natural hot springs.

The highlight? Ramen. When we arrived, the host casually mentioned they offered a bowl of homemade ramen for $10—just text in your order and pick it up from their house. Naturally, we weren’t sure what to expect, so we read the reviews. They raved. Curious and a bit skeptical, we gave it a shot.

Forty-five minutes later—ding ding—a text: "Your ramen is ready." I headed over, and wow. Handmade everything, served in a stylish stone bowl with all the toppings and legit chopsticks. It was hands-down the best ramen we’ve ever had.

The next morning, I walked back to the house to thank the hosts, and that’s when I learned the secret. The host’s wife is a world-renowned Korean chef who once appeared on high-profile U.S. cooking shows, taught some of the world’s top chefs to master Korean cuisine, and—though I can’t recall all the accolades—I just remember leaving that conversation feeling like we’d been lucky enough to taste one of the world’s most precious bowls of ramen. What a wild, delicious surprise!

Art, Apple, and Ash

Saturday was culture day—we checked out the David Hockney exhibit (he’s recently known for creating iPad art). Fun fact: Tim Cook was apparently there just a room ahead of us—didn’t see him, but that’s what we heard!

Afterward, we enjoyed a lovely lunch at Edwin’s parents’ place in Hemet—Edwin is my good friend and next-door neighbor in Seattle; we literally say hi from our kitchen windows! Their warm hospitality felt like a hug after days on the road.

Saturday evening we slept at Perris Lake State Campground—empty and peaceful, though the shower was very cold.

Sunday morning, after a scenic lakeside walk, we drove to San Clemente State Beach, enveloped in heavy fog but still charming. With hot showers and beach access, it was the perfect place to recharge. And—this is hilarious—I randomly decided Alizée needed a new Apple Watch. One moment we were calmly lounging in the van, and the next, I was like, "Let’s go get you a new watch!" We had just 30 minutes before the Apple Store closed, but we made it—and yep, mission accomplished. As we settled back into the van that night, I remember catching the faint smell of smoke in the air. There was ash too, subtle but noticeable. I assumed it was restaurant vent smoke trapped in the thick fog or a neighboring bon fire. After all, it was winter—well outside wildfire season. Right? Little did we know…

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Citrus, clean clothes & quiet goodbyes

Monday, December 30, we spent the morning at nearby outlets, snagging new shoes and indulging in our only In-N-Out burger of the trip. To walk off the fast food guilt (and justify dessert later), we headed for a sunny stroll at San Onofre State Beach. This spot was buzzing with mellow surfer vibes and dotted with epic rigs and camper vans parked along the water—truly a vanlifer’s candy store. It was the perfect stretch and scenery fix before our evening plans.

Later that evening, we had dinner with our friends Michel and Jessica and their two kids at their new home in Rancho Mission Viejo. It was such a treat to see them again—especially since we usually only get to meet once or twice a year. They were so kind and welcoming, and they even let us do a much-needed load of laundry (I was down to my last clean pair of trunks—close call!). My mom would’ve said, “Shu hal meshwar? You went all the way to California to do laundry at your friend’s house?” But then again, she’d be the first to pack six extra shirts ‘just in case’.

That night, we settled at Doheny State Beach, right by the ocean—a decent spot, though we skipped testing the showers. That's because the next morning, Michel and Jess invited us back for breakfast and a warm shower. When you're just a 15-minute drive away from friends you rarely get to see, you've got to make the most of it! Before we left, they gifted us some citrus from their garden: lemons and calamansi citrus (tiny sour oranges) you're meant to eat whole—skin and all. I couldn’t get enough of them. I devoured them like a Lebanese uncle at the end of a wedding buffet—you know the one who grabs a whole tray of baklawa 'for the road'? Michel still sends me photos of his orange tree from time to time, probably as a way to lure me into moving to beautiful, sunny California. And like a true Lebanese, I say, “Eh, maybe one day, inshallah”—which is basically code for: not anytime soon, but I’ll let you keep dreaming!

New Year’s Eve: low key & loungy

Tuesday, New Year's Eve, after unsuccessfully attempting to secure a spot at the fully booked Malibu Creek campground, we landed at Foster Residence Park in Ventura County—basic but adequate for our final night of 2024. No fireworks, no big countdowns—just the three of us tucked in, with Louie snoring and Alizée sipping tea like this was the most normal New Year’s ever. Around midnight, a few fireworks popped off in a nearby town and startled Louie—he’s not exactly a fan of sky booms. In fact, he’s terrified of them. It’s the reason we’d deliberately hunted for a more remote spot, away from any big city centers where midnight fireworks were basically guaranteed. Even so, he handled it like a champ. I offered him a kibbeh-shaped treat out of guilt, and we all pretended this was totally fine and festive. We were grateful for the relative calm—and let’s be honest, a bit proud that we pulled off New Year’s in a van without ending up on the local news.

Coastal calm & New Year’s reflections

After a week of surprise ramen, citrus diplomacy, and dodging firework meltdowns, you'd think we'd be ready to crash—but nope, the van still had a few magic sunsets and sandy detours to offer before calling it quits.

New Year's Day, Wednesday, was beautifully sunny. We explored Ojai’s quiet charm, drove by beautiful Lake Casitas, and enjoyed a relaxing pit stop at Pismo Beach for a quick picnic with a view. Later, we took Louie to a dog-friendly beach in Cayucos, capturing delightful memories as we watched brave souls taking chilly New Year's ocean dips. We closed the day with a stunning sunset at San Simeon Creek Campground (note-to-self: book site 31 or 32 next time for epic sunset views).

Thursday, January 2, dawned beautifully clear. We embarked on a gorgeous hike with Louie on Ridge, Bluff, Arch, and Dolphin trails, a truly picturesque experience despite having to remove a few ticks from Louie's fur afterward. That afternoon, we arrived just in time at Sunset State Beach to catch one last mesmerizing sunset from the dunes—an unforgettable sight.

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The rainy rush home

Once we wrapped up our time along the California coast, the vacation was officially over—and it was time to drive back home. We had hoped for a scenic and enjoyable return journey, but the moment we left California, the skies shut down any trace of sunshine. Rain began to pour as we crossed into Oregon, and it didn’t stop—not once—all the way back to Seattle. It was as if the universe wanted to remind us: 'You wanted adventure? Take this soggy reality check ya zalameh!' No kidding: nonstop grey skies and soggy roads through both Oregon and Washington. It was… depressing, to say the least.

We pushed through quickly, making a brief overnight stop at Valley of the Rogue State Park in Oregon, where we were at least able to enjoy a hot shower. The next day, we made one final pit stop at Bridgeport mall for a quick break and to give Louie a stroll. By that point, all three of us smelled like soggy saj bread left out in the rain. We tossed on dry hoodies, blasted the heater, and cruised the last leg back to the comfort of our own home.

A surreal homecoming

Just days after returning, we saw the headlines: devastating wildfires in Southern California—including Malibu and Pasadena. Places we’d just visited. The realization that they were now forever changed was surreal.

It reminded us just how fleeting, fragile, and precious these moments are. You blink, and what was a campsite full of laughter, fox calls, and Taylor Farms salad wrappers becomes a memory. We’ll carry it with us—like a jar of mouneh (a stash of preserved foods like olives, jams, or pickles—basically, Lebanese treasure for when you need a taste of home) tucked deep in the van’s pantry—until the next Yalla, Bye adventure.

🗺️ Itinerary & cheat sheet (part 2)

Day 5 (Dec 25): Locked out of Chino Hills SP → Desperate campground hunt → Bonita Ranch Campground (San Bernardino National Forest)

Day 6 (Dec 26): Arrive in Palm Springs → Check into Happy Traveller RV → Drinks at Boozehounds → Palm Springs Street Fair

Day 7 (Dec 27): Palm Springs morning → Joshua Tree National Park visit → Date Farm Harvest Host stay → Best ramen ever!

Day 8 (Dec 28): David Hockney exhibit → Lunch with Edwin’s parents in Hemet → Camp at Perris Lake State Park

Day 9 (Dec 29): Scenic walk → San Clemente SP → Impromptu Apple Watch run → Smell wildfire smoke

Day 10 (Dec 30): Outlet shopping → San Onofre State Beach stroll → Dinner + laundry at Michel & Jessica’s → Camp at Doheny State Beach

Day 11 (Dec 31): Breakfast & shower at Michel & Jessica’s → Citrus gift haul → Camp at Foster Residence Park (Ventura County)

Day 12 (Jan 1): Sunny start → Explore Ojai, Lake Casitas, picnic in Pismo Beach, dog beach in Cayucos → Camp at San Simeon Creek SP

Day 13 (Jan 2): Hike Ridge, Bluff, Arch & Dolphin Trails → Camp at Sunset State Beach

Day 14–15 (Jan 3–4): Rainy drive back → Overnight at Valley of the Rogue SP (Oregon) → Final stretch to Seattle with pit stop at Bridgeport Mall

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There's something about the Pacific Northwest in winter that makes you feel like you're trapped in an endless car wash. Rain? Check. Cold? Double-check. Traffic jams from drivers who forgot how rain works? A triple "Akeed!" (which means "of course!" in Arabic) So when Christmas 2024 rolled around, Alizée, Louie, and I decided to pull a classic Lebanese move: we said "Yalla, bye!" and escaped south in our van, chasing sunshine, warmth, and empty winter campgrounds.

This wasn't just any trip—it was our longest van adventure yet, spanning two weeks and stretching all the way from our soggy Seattle home to the sunny embrace of Southern California. It was also our first Christmas and New Year's spent entirely on our own—just the three of us. No family visits to Montreal or Brittany, no crowded airports or holiday drama. Instead, we loaded up our van, fired up the new Webasto heater (a total game-changer, and maybe even a bit too powerful for our cozy-sized van—seriously, it spits fire!), and hit the road. Alizée’s one condition for winter road-tripping? Comfort and heat. This heater checked all boxes and probably warmed neighboring vans too.

Escape from Seattle: zombie apocalypse vibes

We started strong, leaving Seattle on a soggy Saturday morning, bound for Myrtle Creek, Oregon. Despite playing a real-life game of "avoid-the-car-crash" on slick highways, we made it safely to Millsite RV Park. This stop was especially memorable because it was our first night sleeping in the van with near-freezing temperatures outside. Picture this: an entirely empty campground—just us, the camp host, and a whole lot of silence. If you're thinking "zombie apocalypse vibes," you're not far off. Thankfully, our Webasto heater cranked out warmth like it was auditioning for a bigger van, making us wonder if maybe we went a bit overboard with its firepower. But hey, Alizée’s condition for winter van adventures was comfort and heat, and the Webasto delivered both—possibly heating neighboring sites that didn't exist. Pro tip: this campground had clean bathrooms and hot showers for just 25 cents—yep, quarter showers still exist!

Gatecrashing vineyards (literally)

Sunday morning, fueled by optimism and strong coffee, we aimed straight for Sunol, California. The farther south we drove, the clearer the skies got, and by the time we hit Turtle Bay East in Redding (fantastic off-leash spot for Louie), we finally started peeling off layers. This evening was memorable for another reason: it was our very first time booking a night via Harvest Hosts. Given the date—December 22, right when most places shut down for the holidays—we weren't entirely sure what to expect. We booked our spot at Elliston Vineyards just hours before arrival and suspect the system auto-approved us. Arriving in complete darkness, the place looked deserted—no lights, no answers from the intercom, and total silence. After a minor freak-out session and some frantic review-reading, we discovered a reviewer’s secret tip: a hidden side gate covered in greenery. Armed with a flashlight, I ventured out solo while Alizée and Louie anxiously waited in the van. Bingo—I found it, pushed it open, and drove into a huge, unlit parking lot. Eventually, the host messaged back, utterly surprised we'd made it inside, considering she'd closed for the holidays. We laughed about our "sneaky" entry, spent a lovely night there, and even bought a bottle of wine to enjoy. Quiet, scenic, and a fun little adventure—would highly recommend.

Luxury wilderness: coyotes and turkey sandwiches

Monday was a straight shot to Malibu—where we splurged on a night at Surf Outpost. Pricey? "Wallaw, shu bek?" (Lebanese for "Come on, what’s wrong with you?") Yes—but with that view of the Malibu coast overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean, it was worth it. Perched on a cliff, we could hear the waves crashing below us as we settled in for a relaxing night. But, to our surprise, the greater LA area was blanketed in thick fog and mist, as if we'd brought Seattle’s rain along for Californians to "enjoy."

Since we hadn’t paid for our previous stay at the winery, we figured we could justify the splurge at Surf Outpost. And what a spot it was—despite the misty air, it still felt like an upgrade from our usual campgrounds. We took it easy that evening, appreciating the surreal coastal view, enjoying the sound of the ocean, and indulging in the simple luxury of a hot shower. Not bad for a foggy welcome to SoCal!

A surprise guest! A coyote wandered just 10 feet from our van in broad daylight. Thankfully, we were all safely inside—including Louie, who was probably debating whether to bark or just stare in total disbelief.

The next morning (Dec 24), we took it slow, making a nice breakfast while enjoying what we could see of the "partial" but still incredible view. After packing up, we made our way to Brentwood Country Mart, a bougie little strip mall perfect for a casual stroll. From there, we continued to Abbott Kinney for a bit more wandering before heading to Malibu Creek State Park—what a great spot! It wasn’t full, but we weren’t the only ones camping.

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After settling in, we started planning our "Christmas dinner." What to do? We decided on turkey sandwiches—oven-cooked turkey, cranberry spread, avocado, mayo, tomato, lettuce, and some solid sourdough bread. And let me tell you, it hit the spot! Sitting in our cozy van, surrounded by the quiet of the state park, it felt like the perfect way to enjoy a low-key but special holiday meal.

As we settled in for the night, the campground wasn’t full, but we weren’t alone either. The most memorable part? Waking up to bizarre animal noises that lasted a full minute. It sounded like a squeaky dog mixed with some strange intermittent barks. Louie, of course, was on high alert. A little research revealed the culprit: grey foxes, native to California, known for their distinctive calls. Apparently, they vocalize for all sorts of reasons—territorial warnings, mating, family communication, distress. To me, they definitely sounded like they were in distress... or maybe just gossiping about the newcomers in the van. Hahahaha!

Holiday cliffhanger: locked out and scrambling

Christmas Day started perfectly with a morning hike at Tuna Canyon in Topanga, taking in breathtaking coastal views and enjoying the fresh air.

Later in the afternoon, we made our way to Pasadena to visit our friends Julien and Tanya. The warm invite to their Christmas gathering was exactly what we needed—don't get me wrong, spending Christmas together in our van was special, but let’s face it, we were missing the cozy, family-hug vibes. So, thank you, Julien, for adding some Christmas warmth to our trip! For those who don’t know, Julien is actually a longtime friend to both Alizée and me—he’s the reason we met almost 16 years ago! Pretty wild, huh?

Sitting at an actual dining table, enjoying a home-cooked meal instead of our usual trusty Taylor Farms salad, was a treat. Don't get me wrong, Taylor Farms salads get the job done—pre-washed, pre-packed, and reliable—but there's only so much bagged Caesar one can eat before longing for a warm, homemade meal. Tanya's traditional Mexican meatball soup (miam!) was exactly what we needed to break the salad cycle and truly savor Christmas dinner.

After a wonderful evening—our bellies refilled and our hearts warmed—we said our goodbyes and hit the road toward our next planned stop: Rolling M Ranch in Chino Hills State Park. We had it all timed perfectly, aiming to arrive by 9:45 PM—just under the wire before the assumed 10 PM gate closure. Keyword: assumed. See, when we checked into Malibu Creek State Park the night before, the ranger casually mentioned that the park gates close at 10 PM. Naively, we took this as a statewide rule. Turns out, not so much. When we rolled up to Chino Hills, feeling smug about our perfect timing, we found the entrance completely locked down. Not at 10 PM. Not even at 8 PM. Nope—this park had shut its gates at 5 PM! Ouch.

The clock ticked. The GPS mocked us. The plot thickened... We sat there in stunned silence, equal parts disbelief and panic creeping in. Was this our Christmas night fate? A rogue roadside sleep spot with coyotes for neighbors? The reality of our mistake set in fast—time for Plan B... if we even had one.

Will we find somewhere decent to sleep, or end up parked awkwardly by the side of a road, counting coyotes instead of sheep? Stay tuned for Part 2!

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📍 Itinerary & Cheat sheet (part 1)

Day 1 (Seattle → Myrtle Creek, OR)

Millside RV Park – clean facilities, quarter showers.

Day 2 (Myrtle Creek → Sunol, CA)

Elliston Vineyards (Harvest Hosts) – peaceful vineyard stay (with secret gate!); Turtle Bay East Park, great dog spot.

Day 3 (Sunol → Malibu, CA)

Surf Outpost Campground – premium spot, ocean views, hot showers.

Day 4 (LA/Malibu Creek State Park)

Malibu Creek SP – good camping, wildlife (coyotes!), warm showers, homemade meal tip: turkey sandwiches.

Day 5 (Christmas Day)

Tuna Canyon Trail (Topanga), evening with friends in Pasadena; plan campground gates carefully, unlike us!

Stay tuned for more adventures (and surprises!) in Part 2...

The dream trip finally happens (with a bureaucratic detour)

For two years, I’d been telling myself: One day, I’m going to camp at Bowman Bay for three days straight, paddleboarding at sunrise, sunset, and every salty, oceanic moment in between. This wasn’t just a trip—it was a long-standing prophecy, a destiny I had meticulously built up in my mind, probably with a little too much drama. But hey, when you've spent two years hyping something up, the least you can do is show up and see if reality lives up to the fantasy. Usually, I make the hour-and-a-half drive from home just for a two-hour paddleboarding session, which is, let’s be honest, an objectively questionable fuel-to-adventure ratio. But this time, it was happening.

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The timing worked out because we had a long-awaited Nexus Pass appointment just north of Seattle, near the Canadian border. So, the plan: get our Nexus Pass, hop over to Vancouver for some Lebanese ice cream at Le Parfait (a name that Alizée loves to make fun of because she thinks it perfectly characterizes me 🙄). Now, if you’ve never had Lebanese booza, you’re missing out on something truly special. This isn’t your typical scoop-and-melt ice cream—it’s stretchy, chewy, and packed with flavor, thanks to the magic of mastic resin. The ashta booza is rich and creamy, like a frozen take on Lebanese clotted cream, while the mastic booza has a subtly piney, aromatic depth that lingers in the best way. And let’s not forget the rose water ice cream—floral, refreshing, and basically summer in a scoop. If you ever get the chance, do yourself a favor and try it. Trust me, it’ll ruin regular ice cream for you in the best possible way. Then, with our sweet tooth satisfied and our Nexus Pass finally in hand, we hit the road once more. Now, let me tell you—crossing the border with Nexus was so fast and questionless that I felt like I was doing something wrong. I slowed down at the border patrol window, fully expecting an interrogation, only to be greeted with a quick 'Hi' and a wave to keep going. I drove past, convinced I was about to get chased down for skipping some vital security step. But nope—smooth as butter. And just like that, we were heading south for my long-awaited paddleboarding pilgrimage to Deception Pass. Perfect, right? Well.

Setting up at Bowman Bay (while the weather laughs at me)

We arrived, set up at our beautiful waterfront campsite, and I stood there, fully romanticizing how many times I was going to be on the water. This was it—the trip. Except, the weather had other ideas. No rain, but overcast, chilly, the kind of damp air that makes you feel like you just wandered into the veggie fridge at Costco—instant goosebumps, a sudden urge to hug yourself for warmth, and the undeniable need to move faster than usual. But would that stop me? La’! (That’s Lebanese for ‘no,’ but with dramatic emphasis.)

The first day, we just settled in—dinner, early sleep, prepping for the next day. And the next morning, I did what any rational person would do: convinced Alizée to brave the cold and paddleboard with me—essentially asking her to jump into an ice bath for fun. She agreed (reluctantly), and we set off. The water was calm, and while I didn’t see as many dolphins as usual, we spotted a couple in the distance, along with some sea otters, probably judging us. A solid start.

A hike, a snack, and a suspenseful kayaker situation

The next day, I promised Alizée I wouldn’t push her into the water again, so we opted for a coastal hike instead. Deception Pass is postcard-perfect, and as we hiked along the cliffs, we found a great spot to rest and snack while staring out at the famous Deception Pass Bridge and the rapids below.

The next day, I promised Alizée I wouldn’t push her into the water again, so we opted for a coastal hike instead. Deception Pass is postcard-perfect, and as we hiked along the cliffs, we found a great spot to rest and snack while staring out at the famous Deception Pass Bridge and the rapids below.

Now, these rapids aren’t your casual, “Oh, that looks a little tricky” kind of currents. They’re well-known in pro-kayaking circles for being both thrilling and wildly dangerous. Coast Guard rescues here aren’t a rarity. So, when I spotted a lone kayaker in the middle of the rapids, I was intrigued. Their gear looked pro-level—perfect color coordination, sleek setup—but the kayak itself… wasn’t moving. Like, at all.

If you think I’m exaggerating, just wait until you see the footage. Maximum effort, minimal movement—like watching someone sprint on a treadmill that won’t budge. Check out the video below and see for yourself!

My brain toggled between “They must know what they’re doing” and “But do they, though?” So, naturally, I pulled out the drone for a closer look. The kayaker seemed controlled, not panicked, but something about it didn’t sit right with me. I told Alizée, “I’m not leaving until I see this guy make it to some kind of shore.”

Enter: the rescue

Five minutes later, a fisherman’s boat struggled through the rapids and stopped near the kayaker. The captain was on the radio, and I could tell something was happening. And then—here comes the Coast Guard. Full-speed, no-nonsense. They reached the stranded kayaker, hopped onto the tiny, inaccessible beach where he had somehow ended up, and eventually escorted him back to Bowman Bay—the very spot I usually launch from.

At this point, I had to meet this guy. So, we hiked back fast, practically running for 45 minutes to make it to Bowman Bay.

The legend of The Blue Kayaker

And there he was. The Blue Kayaker. Sitting alone on the beach like he was waiting for something. I walked up, ready to ask if he was okay, and—

Silence.

Turns out, he didn’t speak English. But hey, when you’ve just been fished out of the rapids by the Coast Guard, language is kind of secondary. Adventure, mild chaos, and frantic hand gestures? Those are universal. After some gesturing and showing him my drone footage, I got the story: His name was Alexei, 73 years old, from Ukraine. He had fled the war and was visiting his daughter, a local in the area. And despite what had just unfolded, he was an extremely experienced kayaker and cyclist, having done both all over the world. His kayak? A folding one from ZELGEAR, a Ukrainian company founded by his friends back home. They specialize in making high-quality, compact foldable vessels designed for serious adventure. Definitely a cool company to check out.

His daughter arrived, frantic. She had called the Coast Guard. Alexei? Unbothered. His biggest concern? How he was going to explain this to his wife without getting a full lecture. You could practically see him mentally drafting his defense—something along the lines of, 'It was all under control, dear... mostly.'

I shared all the footage with them, and they were in awe. Before parting ways, Alexei invited me to paddle with him sometime.

A sunset paddle, a final meeting, and a sea otter

That evening, I went for my sunset paddleboarding session. And guess who I saw in another bay? Alexei. This time, he was with his daughter and grandkids. I paddled over, and he waved me in—“Let’s go out together!” So we did. We chased each other through the water, no real words exchanged, but a mutual understanding of adventure.

After we split ways, I had one last moment—spotting a sea otter lounging on the same rock, at the same time as the day before. It looked at me, I looked at it. A silent agreement: I respect you, you respect me, we don’t need to make this weird.

And just like that, the trip ended. What started as a long-awaited paddleboarding getaway turned into an unexpected rescue, a new friendship, and a reminder that the best moments on the road (or the water) are the ones you never see coming.

Yalla, bye!

A 3-day express loop: the perfect mix of lakes and coastline

This trip was all about the greatest hits: deep-blue lakes, wild Pacific beaches, and—most importantly—a new chapter in Louie’s adventure dog training. Because if there’s one thing readers know by now, it’s that I love spending time on these lakes with my paddleboard. And if there’s one thing Louie did not love, it was the idea of being on any sort of floating vessel.

But I had a plan. A true Lebanese dad plan. Every evening leading up to this trip, I took Louie down to the local lake after work for a little “aquatic confidence training.” I’d put him in our inflatable kayak and pull him with a rope from my paddleboard, slowly convincing him that floating doesn’t mean imminent doom. After a week of this, he was at a solid 30-minute tolerance level. Progress!

And now? Now we had a trip where I could finally put his training to the test. No pressure, Louie. Just your entire future of adventure travel on the line. Yalla, chou naatrin? (what are we waiting for?)

There are two kinds of “we’ve been there” statements. The first one is casual—yeah, we drove through, saw some trees, took a picture, and ate a granola bar. The second? That’s the one where you actually feel like you’ve been there, like you left a tiny piece of your soul behind (or at least some sand in your van, which you will never fully get rid of, ya haram).

That was the Olympic Peninsula for us. We had technically been there before, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, claim we had been there, there. So, this time, we fixed that.

Day 1: A lake Quinault welcome, french connections, and failed drone attempts

We kicked things off by heading towards Lake Quinault, a perfect blend of forested beauty and glassy waters. We arrived at Falls Creek Campground for a lakeside lunch before I eagerly pulled out the kayak and paddleboard.

Louie’s big moment had arrived.

The sun was shining. The water was calling. He sat in the kayak with Alizée, and we started gliding down the lake, the wind gently pushing us along. And just when I thought we were having a peaceful, serene moment…

I decided to launch the drone. Big mistake!

Turns out, the drone had been in hibernation mode for so long that its software was stuck in the dark ages, limiting it to a comically useless 10-meter perimeter. No big deal—except that I was floating on a paddleboard, the wind was having a field day, and I very quickly drifted past those 10 meters. This is when the drone, in full existential crisis, decided to lock me out of all controls and initiate an emergency landing—right back at its takeoff point. Which, to my absolute horror, was in the middle of the lake. Ya khayye, bala maskhara! (come on, this is ridiculous!) So there I was, frantically stuffing my phone and controller into my dry bag and paddling like my life depended on it. Except, with no fixed reference point, this turned into a ridiculous Tom & Jerry-style chase—me on my paddleboard, zigzagging blindly, while the drone calmly descended toward its watery grave. At the very last second, I managed to snatch it out of the air like some kind of action movie hero and decided, right then and there, that maybe today was not the day for drone footage.

Meanwhile, as we paddled, a group of swimmers overheard us speaking French, and suddenly, a guy in the water shouted "Bonjour!" from afar. Turns out, we weren’t the only Francophones on an adventure.

Enter: Maya and Maël, a French couple on a 6-week road trip from Banff to LA. Naturally, we ended up chatting for a good 20 minutes, exchanging road stories. While our campsite was good and literally 10 steps away from the water, it didn’t have a front-row seat to the lake like theirs. Their site was pure magic—prime real estate for sunset views. So I thought: why not offer to have dinner together? They were up for it! Now, remember, this is van life. You bring your own dinner—no formal invitations, no potlucks, just whatever’s in your fridge. Of course, we had our trusty and tasty Taylor Farms salad kit, jazzed up with some protein toppers. Maya and Maël whipped up pasta with pesto. Here’s the kicker: we always travel with ice cream in the freezer—because we’re gourmand like that! So we each indulged in a Haagen-Dazs chocolate and almond bar, because if you’re going to camp, might as well do it like champs!

What followed? Hours of conversation, sunset views that made us question reality, and the silent but universal understanding that road trip friendships are forged over shared meals and ridiculous snack flexes.

Day 2: Rainforest hikes, van talk, and the dark magic of ruby Beach

We woke up to the sound of rustling trees and the smell of coffee brewing in the cool morning air. As we sipped our cups, Maya and Maël rolled by, needing to wash their dishes at our site (the ultimate road-trip-level intimacy test). We exchanged Instagram handles to keep track of each other’s journey, then set off for the Quinault Rainforest Nature Trail, a stunning hike that meandered through towering trees and moss-covered everything.

On our way out of the parking lot, something caught my eye: a Sprinter van with a German license plate. Now, in the van life world, this is like spotting a rare bird. You have to investigate.

So, pushed by curiosity (and definitely not subtlety), Alizée struck up a conversation with the owners—Núria and Phillip, a Spanish-German couple who had shipped their van (an ex-police van) from Germany to Panama and road-tripped their way through North America for seven months.

Legends.

We ended up chatting for 30 minutes, hearing about their adventure, their plan to sell the van, and their eventual return to Berlin. Before parting ways, we promised to visit if we ever found ourselves in Germany. I saved Phil’s Instagram handle—because obviously, I needed proof for when I tell people “I know a guy who drove from Panama to Seattle.”

Still buzzing from that conversation, we made our way to Kalaloch Beach, where we had lunch in the van, sheltered from the wind. As we drove closer to the ocean coastline, something wild happened—we went from perfect blue sky to extreme fog in a matter of minutes. Apparently, this isn't just Mother Nature being moody; it’s a real meteorological phenomenon. The cold ocean water meets the warmer air from inland, causing condensation and creating that eerie mist that makes the coastline feel straight out of a fantasy novel.

Then came Ruby Beach—a moody, cinematic landscape of dark sand, churning waves, and two surfers we first spotted in the parking lot, getting suited up with that unmistakable ma fi chi attitude (Lebanese for "no big deal," even when the deal is freezing cold water). I turned to Alizée and said, "These guys are a little wild! I’m gonna try to snap some footage of them catching waves on the water." So, I did! And then it hit me—if it were me out there surfing with my buddy, I’d love to have someone capture that moment too. Since we knew which car they had parked in the lot, Alizée insisted we leave a note on their windshield with my phone number to share the footage. So, we did. Later that evening: ding ding! My phone buzzed—it was them, asking for the footage and being super thankful. Small moments, big connections. Kel wahed w riz2o! (Everyone has their share of luck!)

Then we drove to La Push, where the overcast sky made the beach feel eerily quiet. So, we did what any reasonable people would do—unleashed Louie and let him go nuts. He ran. He dug holes. He attempted to sit inside the hole he just dug (as if expecting it to transform into a luxury suite).

Day 3: Devil’s Punchbowl and the joy of meeting (more) people

The morning was cool and humid, so we made a quick escape to Lake Crescent, where we set our sights on Devil’s Punchbowl—yaaneh, what a spot! I personally didn’t see it coming, because the 'hike' to get there from the parking lot is pretty much entirely on asphalt until the very last bit, where you suddenly enter a forested area by the lakeshore. And then—bam!—you find yourself face-to-face with this stunning bridge over crystal-clear waters, with people jumping from a 25-meters cliff. It felt like stumbling upon a hidden oasis! with clear blue waters and a cliff that people (who clearly value adrenaline more than their bones) love to jump from.

As we sat, enjoying the view, I set up the drone again—this time, everything was working as expected. The software was finally up to date, no ridiculous range limits, no existential crises—just smooth flying. I managed to capture an incredible video of a diver doing a backflip into the water, exactly as I had originally hoped.

Later, we tracked the guy down to send him the footage. His name? Brad. His reaction? Pure joy.

Final thoughts

Honestly, there’s something special about these little encounters. Meeting people along the way, sharing moments, swapping stories—it makes every trip feel richer.

This trip wasn’t just about checking a place off the list—it was about feeling like we had truly been there. And if the Olympic Peninsula taught me anything, it’s that the best adventures aren’t just about the landscapes.

They’re about the people (and dogs) you meet along the way. Yalla, nshoufkon bel jaye!

Ever since our first visit to Diablo Lake years ago, a vision had been seared into my mind: me, paddleboarding on those impossibly turquoise waters, gliding effortlessly like some Pacific Northwest explorer. Maybe even a dramatic dive into the glacier-fed abyss—icy, electric blue, and daring me to take the plunge like an overconfident action hero of an adventure documentary.

Fast forward to today: same lake, same dreams… and the same Lebanese survival instincts that say, ‘Why risk hypothermia when you can just admire the view?

Day 1: The wind had other plans

We rolled into Newhalem Creek Campground around 2 PM, ready to soak up a short but fun weekend escape. After a quick lunch, we stretched our legs with a walk along the creek, where we stumbled upon an apple tree. Of course, I had to try one—it was either going to be delicious or poison, but what’s life without a little gamble? Verdict: pretty good. No immediate regrets.

With spirits high, we drove to Diablo Lake, only to be greeted by a crowd (so much for solitude) and a howling wind that instantly crushed my paddleboarding aspirations. The water was a churning, icy-blue monster, daring me to try. I took one look at it, imagined myself being blown across the lake like a lost kayaker in a survival documentary, and quietly backed down. Ma fi chi! Maybe next time.

Louie, however, had zero concerns. He charged into the freezing water with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn’t know what hypothermia is, then emerged and immediately did mud zoomies—a full-speed chaos sprint, covering everything in a layer of questionable mud. It was a proud moment.

Back at the campground, as we were parking, we noticed a girl staring at us intensely—not in a creepy way, but in a "trying to piece together a crime scene through the glare of our windshield" kind of way. Alizée side-eyed me, "Do you know her?" I had no clue, but I had a theory. My last name was boldly plastered on the campsite placard—practically a neon sign for the rare, mythical Lebanese roaming the Pacific Northwest. "She’s probably Lebanese and intrigued," I said. "You should go talk to her!"

Alizée squinted at me. "And say what?"

"I don’t know, improvise! If I go out, she’s going to think I’m trying to hit on her."

Before we could formulate a game plan, the girl suddenly cartwheeled away. Yes, full commitment, legs in the air. We stared, dumbfounded. Was that her exit? A power move? A secret Lebanese handshake we weren’t aware of?

Minutes later, she was back—this time with a friend and a trash bag, still staring. "This is your shot," I whispered. Alizée, now thoroughly invested, strutted out there like a diplomat at a high-stakes summit. I joined a few moments later, and that’s how we met Nicole, the Lebanese expat who had studied in Atlanta and somehow found herself in Seattle, still defying expectations (and gravity).

Lebanese fate works in mysterious, gymnastic ways.

Day 2: A hike to remember and Louie’s temporary rebrand

We kicked off Sunday bright and early with a drive to Thunder Knob Trail, a hike we’d done before with Alizée’s parents. The morning light made everything feel crisp and fresh, like nature’s version of a reset button. At the summit, we paused for a snack, took in the stunning lake views, and struck up a chat with a very friendly couple who were road-tripping from California—freshly evacuated from the Banff wildfires, which made our little weekend getaway feel embarrassingly tame in comparison. They were struggling to snap a picture of themselves and their dog, so I jumped in to help. In return, they insisted on taking one of us, but somehow misheard Louie’s name as “Bluey” and spent the entire photoshoot dramatically calling out, “Bluey! Bluey, look here!” Louie, oblivious, continued his dignified ignorance of human commands, while Alizée and I tried not to burst out laughing at our newly rebranded dog. At this point, I’m half tempted to get him a blue collar just to make it official.

With the weekend winding down, we hit the road back to Seattle, stopping for a late lunch at Costco (sushi, of all things). Because nothing says “outdoor adventure” like grabbing a tray of mass-produced raw fish at a wholesale warehouse. 10/10, no regrets.

Final thoughts: the paddleboard will have to wait

Diablo Lake was as stunning as ever, but the wind had other plans for me. Maybe it was just nature’s way of keeping the dream alive for another trip. Maybe the water was always too cold, and I was never actually going to swim. Either way, Louie lived his best life, we met another Lebanese traveler, and we left with the usual mix of muddy paws, happy memories, and plans to return.

Next time, paddleboarding. Probably. Maybe. Yalla, bye.

You’d think after ten years in Seattle, we’d have exhausted every scenic corner within a three-hour radius. But nope—this was our first time at Baker Lake, which is frankly fadyha (embarrassing). We’ve crossed oceans, driven to California and back, yet somehow missed this gem hiding in our own backyard. Classic.

This time, we decided to leave Louie behind with our friend Linda and her greyhound, Katy. Did Louie love hanging out with his buddy? Absolutely. Did he judge us for going on an adventure without him? One hundred percent.

Day 1: the accidental private estate

We rolled into Boulder Creek Campground around lunchtime, feeling pretty smug about securing a site. And what a site it was! Private entrance, a huge clearing, even its own bathroom—truly, the VIP treatment.

As we admired our kingdom for the weekend, a small detail clicked into place: Karl had booked a group site. For 25 people. That explained why it cost over 100 bucks. Ya habibi. We had basically reserved a space large enough to host a full Lebanese engagement party, DJ and tabbouleh buffet included.

Oh well—might as well lean into the luxury

lake? Turquoise, surreal, straight-up photoshopped. North Cascades mountains towering in the background, water so clear you could see straight to the bottom. Just one problem: it was fresh. And by fresh, I mean borderline glacial.

We jumped in anyway—Turns out, surviving Montreal winters doesn’t mean you’re ready for this. But as soon as the icy water hit, I started questioning all my life choices faster than a Montrealer realizing they forgot their gloves in January.

Post-swim, we warmed up at camp and attempted showers with our trusty RinseKit Pro (acquired during our cross-country road trip), which is basically a glorified garden sprayer. And by “showers,” I mean a rapid, frantic splash session before the mosquitoes launched their attack. Then we passed out early, like true people of the mountain life.

Day 2: naked by Watson Lake

Bright and early, we set off for our big hike: Anderson & Watson Lakes. The drive to the trailhead was a 45-minute gravel-road adventure, where we saw a deer and its baby—a rare moment of serenity before the dust storm that was our van.

The hike itself? Gorgeous, but not a walk in the park. 2.5 hours of climbing, huffing, and pretending we weren’t out of shape.

After our dip, we realized we had zero extra clothes to change into. Solution? Go full send and let nature do the drying. So there we were, two people, fully exposed, sitting by a crystal-clear alpine lake, eating lunch like this was normal.

Lebanese modesty? Gone. If our ancestors could see us now, ya 3ayb el shoom (shame on us), they’d shake their heads and disown us on the spot. Two people, fully exposed, sitting by a pristine alpine lake, eating lunch like we were at a Parisian café. If there was ever a moment to question our life choices, this was it. But hey, the mountains demanded respect, and we complied.

The way back? Tough but worth it. The drive home? After 45 minutes of dirt and gravel roads before finally hitting asphalt for the two-hour drive home, a dust cloud followed us all the way to Seattle. We rolled into the city looking like we had spent two weeks on the Sahara circuit.

Final thoughts

Baker Lake, you were majestic. The water? A dream. The hike? Epic. The accidental wedding-sized campsite? A hilarious bonus.

Would we go back? In a heartbeat. Would we book a site for 25 people again? Allah yostor. But hey, if anyone ever needs a private venue for a reunion, hit us up. We have experience.

Yalla, bye—until the next adventure.

Our mission: escape the US, escape the noise, and explore the west coast of Vancouver Island for the very first time.

Day 1: The great escape (with a Walmart Cameo)

We crossed the border in the evening and stayed the night just five minutes from the Tsawwassen ferry port, ensuring we wouldn’t have to rush, deal with the border crossing in the morning, or risk missing our 6:15 a.m. reservation. Now, you’d think the first night of an epic getaway would involve some magical off-grid camping spot, right?

Wrong.

We slept in an RV park—fine, decent, but not exactly worth it when there’s a Walmart next door. Nothing humbles a vanlifer quite like realizing you paid for a night when free parking was a few feet away.

Still, we were out of the US Louie was blissfully unaware of the fireworks we had dodged, and we were on track for a peaceful, firework-free weekend.

Day 2: The paddleboard baptism

Once we landed on the island, we made a quick pit stop at Costco in Nanaimo (because of course). Then, we drove to Sproat Lake for lunch and some paddleboarding. Now, let’s be clear—I love paddleboarding. It’s peaceful, it’s scenic, it makes you look like you have your life together.

Except when you fall.

And let’s just say, I got initiated into Vancouver Island’s waters real quick. But the lake was amazing, and the wipeout was worth it.

Later, we made our way toward our campground but stopped for a walk through the rainforest trails. The wooden path had two loops, and Louie, despite some initial hesitation, took it like a champ. We spent the night at Long Beach Golf Campground—hot showers, clean amenities, and site 35X was the best.

Day 3: The Tofino Experience™

First stop: Mackenzie Beach. We walked Louie, soaked in the coastal views, and then I headed out for more paddleboarding (this time, with slightly more dignity).

We explored downtown Tofino, where we stumbled into a fisherman’s port filled with charm, great views, and some solid oddities. It was the kind of place where you could tell every boat had a story.

Then came the important part—beer shopping. We found a horchata stout from Vancouver at a beer store on the ground floor of a cool hotel called MOQ, and let me tell you, it was creamy, sweet, and exactly what we didn’t know we needed. It had that comforting, spiced warmth—almost like if Almaza, the quintessential Lebanese beer, took a wrong turn on the way to the Mediterranean and ended up in a Mexican bakery.

At Tonquin Beach, we met a group of girls from Ucluelet, one of whom was an artist (Seawoven). We chatted, soaked up the scenery, and eventually headed back to camp for a warm shower.

Dinner? Takeout pizza from Basic Goodness Pizzeria. But instead of eating it at camp, we took it to the water, sat by the view, drank our beer, and enjoyed every bite. If there’s a better way to eat pizza, I don’t know it.

Day 4: Ucluelet, seawolves & the 'lemonade' incident

We drove to Ucluelet and walked the Lighthouse Loop, a scenic coastal trail where we had an unexpected wildlife encounter. At first, we spotted what looked like a dog stranded on a rock near the ocean shore. But something felt off. As I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t a dog at all—it was something wilder. A wolf? Alone? By the ocean?

Curious and slightly bewildered, we continued along the trail and soon stumbled upon a park ranger. I asked if it was possible that I had just seen a wolf. His response? Yes! He explained that Vancouver Island is home to a unique community of sea wolves—coastal wolves that have adapted to life near the ocean. He also mentioned that the wolf we saw had been spotted several times recently, closer to humans than usual, which is often a sign of struggle—most likely rejected by its pack and having a hard time hunting for food.

The ranger recommended watching The Island of the Sea Wolves, a Netflix show about these incredible animals. The first thing we did when we got back to Seattle? We watched all four episodes—and we loved it. The story, the imagery, everything about it was mesmerizing.

Still processing the incredible experience, we carried that sense of awe and reflection into the rest of our day. Lunch was a picnic at Little Beach, followed by yet another paddleboarding session—this time, a particularly special one. First, it was in the ocean, and second, it took me through areas we had spotted earlier during our walk on the Lighthouse Loop trail. It was peaceful at first, but then the currents started picking up, growing stronger and stronger, pushing me out toward open waters. Alone on the board, I had a brief moment of panic before deciding it was time to turn around and make my way back to shore—just another reminder that nature always has the upper hand. Then, we grabbed coffee and started making our way back toward Nanaimo.

But first, we stopped at Wally Creek for a quick dip, and wow—the place was stunning. The water was ice-cold but completely worth it, a perfect wake-up call after all our adventuring. I even flew my drone to capture some areal shots of the crystal-clear pools and the winding rock formations.

Now, here’s where things got…notable.

We saw a girl wearing a tiny bikini top, and Alizée, ever the keen observer, simply remarked: "C’est une limonade."

Translation? Let’s just say it was a refreshing sight, in more ways than one. wink

Day 5: Back to reality (with one last Walmart Cameo)

We took the ferry back to Tsawwassen, and by the time we "landed", it was 11 PM. Too late to book anything, too early to power through to Seattle, so we made the humble decision to sleep in the Walmart parking lot.

It wasn’t glamorous, but hey—we’d come full circle.

At midnight, a grumpy store employee reminded us that the parking limit was three hours. But the lot was full of other campers, so we weren’t exactly the only ones bending the rules.

By the next morning, we were back on the road, heading home to Seattle, firework-free and fully recharged.

Final thoughts

Was this trip about adventure? Yes.

Was it also about saving our dog from full-scale panic? Also yes.

Vancouver Island gave us everything we needed—beaches, lakes, paddleboarding, craft beer, friendly strangers, and one very unforgettable stop at Wally Creek.

Would we do it again? In a heartbeat.

You see, no van is road-trip-ready without some essential upgrades, and in our case, that meant the ultimate piece of gear—a portable loo. A true 'van life' statement, but one that would leave any teta aghast. "A portable what? Walla, no wonder they call it camping!" We made our purchase with the kind of giddy pride you'd expect from someone buying their first home appliance. I mean, what screams "van life" more than being ready for a bathroom emergency?

With the loo in tow, we set our sights on New Jersey to visit John, my childhood friend. We arrived at his place tired, hungry, and ready to catch up, but my immediate focus was on food. John, ever the gracious host, offered to whip up a salad—because he remembered that I try to keep carbs in check (no small feat when you’re road-tripping).

What came out of John’s fridge that night changed everything: Taylor Farms premade salads. Not exactly tabbouleh, but hey, it’ll do in a pinch! Just dump them into a bowl, mix, and voilà—road food perfection. Alizée and I couldn’t stop raving about them. They would go on to become the staple meal of our van life, as reliable and satisfying as the sound of our new van’s engine (at least for now). John had no idea how transformative his little salad lesson was that evening, but we sure did.

The next day, we left for Montreal, about seven hours away, where we planned to visit family and friends. By this point, the van had proved to be a good driving companion, but not without its quirks. Somewhere between highway daydreams, I decided to test out the sink for the first time. Big mistake.

As soon as I turned on the faucet, there was a loud pop, and water shot out from a pipe beneath the sink like a rogue firework. I couldn’t help but imagine my dad shaking his head and saying, "What kind of sink is this, habibi? High-tech and already broken!" For a brief moment, the cabin turned into a splash zone. Turns out, a plumbing fitting had broken loose.

We pulled into the nearest Home Depot, where I channeled every ounce of my DIY spirit. Tools? Check. Replacement fittings? Check. A newfound respect for return policies? Absolutely. In under an hour, I had the plumbing fixed, and for the first time, I felt like I was getting under the hood (or in this case, under the sink) of our new home-on-wheels. Sure, it was annoying—brand new vans shouldn’t be springing leaks—but there was something deeply satisfying about getting hands-on with the van.

Montreal was a breath of fresh air. We spent a few days soaking up time with family and friends, where the table was always piled high with food, and the laughter echoed late into the night. It was a reminder of the warmth and chaos of Lebanese gatherings—a sharp contrast to the quieter, salad-fueled journey ahead as we hit the road west to Seattle. The journey was just beginning, but one thing was clear: this van wasn’t just transportation. It was a crash course in flexibility, creativity, and the occasional plumbing repair.

Next stop: the open road west, powered by Taylor Farms salads and the determination to make it back in time for our reunion with Louie.

Day 1 (June 17th, 2024): Montreal to Pinery Provincial Park, Ontario

Wow, we lived in Ontario for five years and had never heard about this beautiful place. Serene, with beach access to Lake Huron, it felt like discovering a hidden gem. We were especially impressed by how clean and well-maintained the public restrooms and showers were in the provincial park—kudos to Canada!

This day was extra special because it marked our very first night sleeping in the van and testing out the pop-top bed. We weren’t sure which side of the bed to put our heads on, but we eventually decided the side with the most head-clearance was best. Despite the East Coast heatwave and the lack of wind for a fresh breeze, we found our new bed comfortable and serene.

The next morning, we walked across from our campsite to the beach. It was so beautiful and empty that I even dared to spend some time naked on the beach and in the water—a moment of pure freedom! I could almost hear my mom’s voice in the back of my head, “Walla, habibi, what if someone sees you? Ya haram!” But enough fun; it was time to hit the road to our next stop: Camp Bullfrog Lake in Illinois.

Day 2 (June 18th, 2024): Pinery Provincial Park to Camp Bullfrog Lake, Illinois

Camp Bullfrog Lake was a cute campground with friendly staff, and we enjoyed a nice walk around the lake—a well-needed stretch after a long drive. In fact, this is something we always make sure to do daily during our long cross-country trips. For dinner, we ate in the van, testing Taylor Farms’ different options (sweet kale was proving to be our favorite at this point). As night fell, we noticed fireflies dancing in the dark. Falling asleep to the sounds of frogs croaking nearby felt magical.

Day 3 (June 19th, 2024): Illinois to Olson Campground, Worthington, Minnesota

At this point, believe it or not, our goal was for our path and itinerary to be as close as possible to I-90 until we reached home. For readers unfamiliar with it, the Interstate Highway System in the US is truly remarkable, connecting major cities with efficient, well-maintained roads. Illinois and New York, however, stood out for having the most toll booths and cameras. I distinctly remember being distracted and confused as I approached a toll booth in New York State and accidentally lined up to go through the EZ Pass lane. That little mistake cost me—instead of paying less than $2 at the next toll booth, I had to pay the maximum rate of over $20. Ouch! Anyways, I’m diverging...

We were now on route toward the midpoint of the continent: Minnesota. We reached our campground, which had a first-row seat and view of Okabena Lake. Since our campsite had shore power, we took advantage of it to test plugging the van into shore power for the first time. It worked just as expected!

The next morning, we took one last look at the serene lake before packing up and hitting the road again. With Minnesota behind us, we were now heading toward Wyoming, eager to see how the landscapes would change as we crossed into the West.

Day 4 (June 20th, 2024): Minnesota to Indian Campground & RV Park, Wyoming

To get to Wyoming, you need to drive through South Dakota—arguably the longest and most boring stretch of this cross-country trip. For anyone who's driven through South Dakota, they'll remember two things: asking yourself what happens in South Dakota considering (1) how empty and endless the horizon looks as you're driving, and (2) a place called Wall Drug. Wall Drug is memorable less for what it has to offer and more for the relentless billboard advertising along I-90—it’s like South Dakota’s unofficial sport. From the moment you enter the state, you’re hit with a billboard every mile or so, hyping up everything from free ice water to 5-cent coffee, and even dinosaur statues. These signs go on for hundreds of miles, making it impossible to ignore. We’ve driven cross-country three times, and despite the barrage of advertising, we’ve yet to stop at Wall Drug! 😅

Anyways... we finally reached the beautiful state of Wyoming and our campground. We started the evening with a nice three-loop walk, and to spice things up for dinner, we added some chicken McNuggets from the McDonald's next door to our trusty sweet kale salad. YUM! The next morning, we woke up to the sound of raindrops. I quickly sprung into action to close the pop-top to avoid getting the canvas wet and moist. I shouted, "Let’s go!" to get Alizée moving, which she did—bolting out of the "top floor" in a flash. I had sprung into action

so quickly because I was genuinely worried about the canvas getting wet and trapping moisture during the long drive ahead. Alizée’s reaction was just as swift and spontaneous, and when she reached the "bottom floor," she paused, looking around, unsure of what to do with herself. It was hilariously chaotic and had us both laughing once the moment settled. (lol)

With the rain now behind us and everything back in order, we packed up and set out once again. The next destination on our journey was Montana, and we were excited to see the dramatic landscapes unfold as we got closer to the home stretch of our trip.

Day 5 (June 21st, 2024): Wyoming to God’s Country Camping, Montana

Gifted with epic views of Montana's beautiful nature, we arrived at our campsite earlier than previous days and decided to explore the creek nearby. What a treat! We went for a walk by the water and loved it so much that we decided to head to the local grocer to buy a bag of chips and two cans of beer (in true American fashion). We hiked back to the creek and had an ‘apéro’ by the water. It was very hot, so we took advantage of the ice-cold water of the creek and went for a swim—what a joy!

Back at our campsite, since this campground didn’t have showers, it was the perfect opportunity to test out a new gadget we’d purchased during a Costco pit stop in Wyoming: a portable battery-powered shower (the RinseKit Pro). I couldn’t help but think how my mom would have reacted—probably with an exasperated, "You’re showering outside? Walla, might as well bathe in a public fountain!" We took our clothes off and showered outside. Loved it!

Day 6 (June 22nd, 2024): Montana to Home (Seattle)

It’s only after driving across the entire continent that we realized how lucky we are to live in Washington State—arguably the most beautiful and diverse state—with eastern deserts and lush, abundant greenery as we got closer and closer to the Pacific Coast.

This was our last stretch before we reached home. We started recognizing the exits and graffiti that give Seattle its "character," and it felt surreal to be so close to the finish line.

We finally made it back home, parking the van in the garage (its new home base). Shortly after, I drove down to Renton to meet someone I found on Facebook Marketplace who was selling brand-new, unopened WeatherTech mats for the van. Before these mats, no shoes were allowed anywhere inside the van! :D They’re now only allowed in the front driver and passenger seats where the new mats are placed. Alizée was relieved.

And just like that, our epic cross-country journey came to a close. It was time to reunite with Louie, who greeted us with as much excitement as we felt. Home had never felt so good.

In total, we drove 54 hours and covered ~4,000 miles, from Virginia to Washington, passing through Montreal along the way. To put it in perspective, that’s roughly the equivalent of driving across Lebanon… 80 times! It’s a reminder of how tiny my country of origin is compared to this vast land we now call home. ✌️❤️

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How it all started

It started, as most wild ideas do, with an innocent daydream—a vague itch for something different, something adventurous, something...van-shaped. Alizée and I had been talking about ways to get out of the daily grind, to chase sunsets instead of deadlines, and to build memories that wouldn’t fit neatly into an Instagram grid. The more we thought about it, the more the van life dream crystallized. “What if we just did it?” I asked one evening, fully expecting her to tell me to simmer down. Instead, she smiled and said, “Yalla, bye! Let’s go.”

With our Lebanese spirit of “when you’re going, go big,” we didn’t just want any van. We wanted our van. Something that could be a blank canvas for all the adventures we’d paint onto it. There were some non-negotiables: it had to be brand new—a big ask when demand for camper vans was still running high even in mid-2024. It had to be reliable (a shout-out to family wisdom: “Ma teshteri shi 7artouka”—don’t buy something that’ll need fixing every week). And, of course, it needed to have just the right dimensions—small enough to navigate tight city streets, fit our home garage, but spacious enough to carry all the dreams we could pack into it.

The search began. I spent hours scouring listings, reading forums, and joining Facebook groups. We were determined to find a Mercedes-Benz Metris cargo van, mainly for its Goldilocks size. It wasn’t as towering as a Sprinter, but it could still swallow up a road trip’s worth of gear without breaking a sweat.

Finding the rig for us

But oh, the hurdles! The Metris was the darling of the Pacific North West—and for good reason. With America's best Metris upfitters like Peace Vans in Washington and Keystone Coach Works in Oregon, it was the go-to choice for anyone dreaming of the perfect, small but mighty, adventure-mobile. But therein lay the rub. These upfitters were so popular that their lead times stretched on for months. By the time they could have delivered a converted van, summer would have been a distant memory, and “patience” isn’t usually my problem, but when I make a decision, I need to act on it ASAP. Plus, demand was sky-high, and prices were climbing faster than a Seattle house listing. It felt like the universe was dangling a carrot on a stick, just out of reach. This wasn’t just any van we were chasing; it was the van, and we weren’t about to settle for anything less.

Then, one fateful morning, a breakthrough. A Mercedes-Benz dealership in Virginia had exactly what we were looking for: a brand-new, pristine white, fully converted Metris. The price? Fair. The specs? Perfect. The catch? It was 2,700 miles away. But if I’ve learned one thing from my parents, it’s that if you get a good feel for things and the prize is good enough, you make it happen. “Yislamo ya Rab—we’ll make it work,” I said, as we started sketching out a cross-country retrieval plan.

Booking the flight to Virginia felt surreal. The whole thing had a mix of excitement and absurdity, like the first moments of a road trip when you realize you might have overpacked snacks but underestimated the quirks of last-minute planning. When we finally arrived at the dealership, the van was waiting for us, gleaming in all its unmodified cargo-van glory—almost like your neighborhood plumber or electrician’s van 😀. Seeing it felt like meeting a pen pal you’d written to for years.

There it was, gleaming and waiting for us ✨

The salesperson, Larry Stepp—a memorable 77-year-old who's thriving and full of energy—handed us the keys, smiling, and I could tell he thought we were a little crazy. Maybe we were. But there’s a special kind of joy in those moments when the what-ifs and the might-bes give way to the here-and-now. Standing in that lot in Virginia, I glanced at Alizée. “Ready to take it home?” I asked. She grinned. “Not so fast—we’ve got to detour through Montreal.”

And just like that, the van—our van—wasn’t just a vehicle anymore. It was a vessel for everything to come: the open roads, the quiet campsites, the laughter shared over burnt campfire meals, and the miles that would stretch out between us and whatever lay ahead.

But before I end this story, let’s talk about the van itself. The interior was fully converted—a cozy space for adventures to come—but the exterior? Well, it looked like your friendly neighborhood plumber’s van. That had to change. Over time, we gave the van a personality upgrade. First, we added new wheels (Black Rhino Sandstorm), fender flares (by Terrawagen out in Oregon), and an aero hood spoiler (also by Terrawagen) to give it a bit of edge and character. Next, we swapped out the bouncy OEM suspension—which made it feel like riding in a NYC yellow cab—for upgraded suspensions that provided extra clearance and a more controlled, performance-oriented ride (tailored made for the Metris by a German company: Twin-Monotube-Projekt). We also removed the black vinyl wrap on the pop-top, the part that opens into a bed or provides extended headroom. To future-proof it, we upgraded the struts so we could add gear or a cargo box on the roof if needed. Finally, we installed a solar panel charger to give us an extra source of battery power, complementing the alternator and shore power outlet, ensuring we’d always have the energy to keep our adventures going.

The interior upgrades and personal touches deserve a story of their own, so I’ll save that for a future tale. For now, with the GPS set and Alizée by my side, we pulled out of the lot, ready to turn dreams into adventures. As we drove off, I glanced at her and said, 'Inshallah kheir!' (translation: 'God willing, it’ll turn out well!') because sometimes, all you need to start a new adventure is a little hope and a lot of faith. Yalla, bye!

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If you’re wondering about the name, let me paint a picture. You’re standing at your front door, backpack half-zipped, a snack in one hand, your keys in the other. You have a vague idea of where you’re headed but no clue what’s actually going to happen. You turn back for one last look and shout:

“Yalla, bye!”

It’s the ultimate Lebanese sendoff—half "hurry up," half "see ya!"—the perfect phrase for embracing adventure with a shrug, a smile, and a total disregard for meticulous planning. And that’s exactly the spirit of this newsletter: part storytelling, part travel guide, and all about saying yes to adventure (even when it goes off the rails).

What to expect?

This isn’t just about sharing wild road trip tales—it’s about making sure you can get out there and create your own. Every edition of Yalla, Bye blends firsthand travel stories with practical insights to help you plan your next escape.

• Scenic routes & detours – because the best roads aren’t always the straightest.

• Campground recommendations – the gems, the hidden spots, and the ones with the best sunrise views.

• Food stops worth the miles – whether it’s a roadside falafel stand or a must-visit local eatery, we’re hunting down the best bites.

• Itinerary ideas – weekend getaways, cross-country van trips, and every kind of escape in between.

I’ll be covering adventures throughout North America—especially the Pacific Northwest—but sometimes, when the opportunity presents itself, we’ll go global. The goal? To make your next trip easier, better, and way more fun.

You might not know me yet, but let me introduce you to the usual suspects in my stories. There’s my wife, Alizée—an incredibly talented illustrator whose work is deeply inspired by Lebanese culture—and then there’s our greyhound, Louie, who effortlessly steals the spotlight wherever we go. Together, we weave Levantine traditions, humor, and everyday moments into our van adventures, adding an extra dash of personality to the journey.

And now, I’m bringing all of that to Substack—a fresh start, a blank road map, and a new way to share these stories. Whether you’re here for the road trip mishaps, the hidden-gem campgrounds, or just a little Lebanese humor, you can also follow along at www.okyallabye.com, where I’ll be sharing the same adventures, tips, and experiences. No matter where you read, expect plenty of spontaneity, detours, and fun along the way.

So if you love spontaneous trips, ridiculous detours, and practical getaway plans, subscribe and join me on this journey. I’d love to hear from you too—drop a comment, share your own travel stories, or let me know if there’s a destination I absolutely need to check out. There will be road trip misadventures, van life quirks, and just enough Lebanese humor to keep things interesting.

Yalla, bye—we’re off! 🚐 ✨

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Picture the three of us perched on a Norwegian cliff: me, my wife Alizée, and a few steps behind us, my best friend Samir, whose sweet tooth is legendary (he once ate an entire box of bomboloni in one sitting, no joke). The view is so epic it feels unreal, like I’m staring at a painting come to life. Then Samir casually mentions he just puked. We half-laugh in disbelief and assume he’s kidding. After all, who jokes about throwing up while you’re basically on top of the world?

Turns out, he wasn’t kidding.

But let’s rewind to where this story really began.

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The lead-up: how a single email sparked everything

April 15, 2019: Alizée’s fateful link

My wife, Alizée, sends me a link with photos of the Lofoten Islands in Norway. You know those pictures that look so impossibly majestic you suspect some wizard conjured them up? It was that kind of scene, towering mountain peaks rising out of turquoise waters, fishermen’s cabins perched on stilts, and a sun that might not set.

I’m instantly hooked. “We have to go,” I tell Alizée. She’s all, “Yalla, bye. Say no more,” and the plan wheels start turning.

Context: My Microsoft gig & connection to Norway

Quick aside: I work at Microsoft, in product development. Most of my team is based in Oslo 🇳🇴. That’s how the Norwegian bug first bit me; I was flying there quarterly for work and slowly absorbing bits of their language, culture, and fascination with the great outdoors.

So, logistically, using a work trip in August to bounce over to Lofoten seemed… well, brilliant. The plan: align this big Lofoten adventure with my August work trip, so we can seamlessly transition from ‘Office in Oslo’ to ‘Motorhome in the wilderness.’

Early June: Plans get real

By June 6 2019, I finally pin down the exact dates for my next work trip. Cue me telling Alizée, “Alright, let’s book it. Let’s do this.”

A friend (probably some ultra-healthy Norwegian colleague) had bragged that in Norway you can literally park your camper anywhere on public land. My eyes lit up with visions of free-range camping on remote mountain roads.

Alizée, the meticulous trip-planner, starts mapping out an hour-by-hour schedule. She’s basically NASA Mission Control for our trip. I just keep nodding and thinking about how I’m going to roast marshmallows at midnight in the Arctic Circle.

Plot twist: Inviting Samir & Yulia

We email our best friends, Samir and Yulia, in Toronto. We half-expect a polite refusal. After all, they’re not exactly “camp in the middle of nowhere” types.

Days pass… no response. We follow up. Still crickets. Then finally, Samir says he’s IN, but without Yulia. I can almost hear the conflict in his email: “Yes, I’m coming. I promise. (But also, help!)”

We’re pumped. Samir’s never done anything like this. He’s an accountant by trade: spreadsheets, neat corners, scheduled lunch breaks. The thought of him roughing it in a big ol’ motorhome is equal parts hilarious and exciting. We officially book a “big mama” motorhome, plan our route from Tromsø down the chain of Lofoten Islands to a village called Å (this is literally the last letter of the Norwegian alphabet, and the last village at the tip of the Lofoten chain).

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Chapter 1: Our first day & that mini-flood

We pick up the motorhome in Tromsø, get ourselves settled, and by evening Samir and I whip up a gourmet dinner inside our “big mama” RV. Alizée, generous soul that she is, offers to do dishes, only to turn on the faucet and unleash a small tsunami all over the motorhome floor. Turns out the main kitchen sink pipe wasn’t connected at all. I quickly jerry-rig a fix, mop up, and we crash for the night, exhausted but relieved we hadn’t drowned in our own motorhome on day one.

Husfjellet hike

The next morning, we drive out to our first real hike Husfjellet on Senja. It's around 8 km round trip (~5 hours), moderate difficulty, but the views are anything but moderate. Think towering peaks, shimmering fjords, and air so crisp it feels like it’s scrubbing your lungs clean.

We lace up our brand-new hiking boots, Samir included, giddy to finally hit the trails. About an hour in, I realize Samir’s no longer behind me. We pause, and a moment later, he strolls up, joking, “Don’t wait for me, I just puked!” Alizée and I exchange a look—Is he serious or just messing with us? He insists we go on; he’ll keep his own pace.

Moments later, he’s perfectly fine, cracking jokes and looking like the same old Samir. We assume it’s just first-day jitters, plus maybe last night’s dinner weighing on him. Because how can you fret about a friend feeling “off” when you’re staring at the kind of fjord panorama that makes your soul do cartwheels? We snap photos, soak up the majesty, and head back down. If there was a warning sign, we totally missed it.

Chapter 2: Måtinden & the waste tank fiasco

We ferry from Senja to Andøya, chanting “Tunnelenn!” in our best mock Norwegian accent every time we burrow through another rock-carved tunnel. Yes, we’re easily amused.

Our second comedic fiasco? Me learning to drain the motorhome’s waste tank. Let’s just say, it doesn’t matter how many travel blogs you read, nothing prepares you for that smell. I strapped on rubber gloves like I was about to perform surgery, popped open the external valve, and instantly realized I’d underestimated the sheer… intensity of motorhome “leftovers.” Samir cheered me on from a safe distance, pinching his nose with one hand while filming me with his phone (typical). We laughed so hard that I nearly dropped the waste hose, which would’ve turned a disgusting situation into a total nightmare. By the time I finished, I was half proud, half traumatized, and Samir was in hysterics, calling it the highlight of his day.

Måtinden hike

But the real highlight is Måtinden: a moderate coastal hike boasting insane ocean views. Samir starts off slow, again, but after a few minutes of heavy breathing, he’s eager to keep going. This time, Alizée and I are the ones feeling a bit wiped, ready to call it a day, but Samir insists we keep going “just a bit farther” for a better vantage point. Turns out, he was right. That extra push led us to an expansive view of endless blue waters, rugged peaks, and seagulls screeching overhead. We’re in heaven, while Samir hums “Dance Monkey” on the way down like everything’s cool.

Chapter 3: Mannen, 7-Eleven devotion & a surprise sauna

Next stop: Lofoten. We’re living off 7-Eleven coffee and Soft Is, zigzagging through epic roads in our stick-shift motorhome. Samir, to my horror, sometimes corners like he’s driving a Porsche, and I have to remind him this thing’s top-heavy. We laugh, but seriously—yikes.

Mannen hike

The Mannen hike near Uttakleiv Beach is a short, sweet climb. Samir again has a tiny “episode” early on, then recovers in record time. We watch the sunset from a vantage point that looks Photoshopped, like we’re trespassing in someone’s desktop wallpaper.

Trevarefabrikken hotel

Back in Henningsvær, we stumble upon Trevarefabrikken hotel. It has a sauna with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. We do the heat-then-freezing-water-plunge ritual about three times, chatting with a Swedish lady who swims in lakes year-round. Samir and I grin like we’re so tough—meanwhile, I’m 90% sure my toes froze solid for a minute.

We cap the night with a fancy dinner (a serious upgrade from our motorhome dinners) and return for coffee in the morning, gazing at the water. Life’s perfect, right?

Chapter 4: Reinebringen—the steep beast

Reinebringen hike

Reinebringen is short but brutal. Think a 2 km stair-stepper from Hades, with a killer payoff: a panoramic view of fjords, fishing villages, and mountains that spike like dragon spines. Samir stops halfway up, looking nauseous again, waves us off, and says, “I’m good, just need a sec.” We’re clueless, assuming he’s just dealing with typical out-of-shape struggles.

At the summit, we soak in the kind of view you think only exists in postcards. Samir cracks a joke about needing a medal for all these hikes. We laugh, snap photos, and eventually descend. Not once do we suspect his body is literally warning him of clogged arteries.

The drive back & the shocking aftermath

By day six, we were spent, in the best possible way, caravanning back toward Tromsø in drizzly weather. Samir DJs our last drive, blasting “Dance Monkey” again: apparently Norway’s national anthem at this point.

We say goodbye at the airport, hugging, and with zero clue anything was wrong. Samir was as cheerful as ever, promising next time he’d be in better shape. Little do we know…

A few days later, Samir calls from Toronto. He can’t even walk across his living room without gasping for air. Doctors discover multiple clogged arteries. Those puke/breathlessness episodes? Micro heart attacks. My stomach drops. This friend I joked with about being out of shape was literally dancing on the edge.

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Samir 2.0: the comeback

A few surgeries and lifestyle changes later, Samir transforms. He quits his accounting job, moves to Tulum with his wife Yulia, then hops to Lisbon, living the digital nomad dream. He often credits this trip as the final push, our ‘big mama’ motorhome fiascos and all, for shaking him awake.

We still look back and laugh at certain moments: 7-Eleven Soft Is, the water-faucet flood, me draining the waste tank. But behind the laughter is a massive sense of gratitude. Samir survived something that could’ve gone catastrophically wrong in the middle of nowhere.

Lessons & takeaways

• Listen to your body, even on vacation: Vomiting after every climb might not be just “out of shape.”

• Norway’s motorhome freedom is real: Expect epic drives, unlimited tunnel fun (“Tunnelenn!”), and the occasional plumbing crisis.

• 7-Eleven isn’t always… 7-Eleven: In Norway, it’s basically a gourmet pit stop. Trust me, “Soft Is” is worth planning your entire route around.

• Hikes are life-changing: Sometimes literally. For Samir, they were near-deadly, but also the key to recognizing how precious life can be.

• ‘Yalla, Bye!’ Means embrace adventure: We’re all busy, life is short, and you never know when a trip might save someone’s life, or change it.

This trip was supposed to be about epic mountains, late-night sunsets, and a motorhome that doubles as a rolling apartment. It ended up revealing how fragile life is, and how quickly everything can change.

But hey, if you’re asking me whether I’d do it all over again, the answer is a big, fat YES. Just maybe next time, we’ll pack a defibrillator along with our hiking boots.

Yalla, bye!

The day-by-day cheat sheet

(If you actually want the bullet points without the heart palpitations…)

• Day 1: Tromsø ➜ Sommarøy ➜ Ferry to Senja ➜ Overnight at Husøy

• Day 2: Husøy ➜ Husfjellet Hike ➜ Ferry to Andøya

• Day 3: Måtinden Hike ➜ Drive to Henningsvær

• Day 4: Uttakleiv Beach & Mannen Hike ➜ Sauna at Trevarefabrikken, then dinner

• Day 5: Reinebringen Hike ➜ Arctic Ocean swim (if you dare)

• Day 6: Drive back to Tromsø in the rain, Samir DJ-ing

One more thing...

A note for Samir (and Yulia 😬)

Samir, if you’re reading this, you already know this trip was unforgettable—not just because of the hikes, the Soft Is, the sauna plunges, or the near-tragedies, but because of you.

You could have sat this one out. You could have let the long flights, the uncertainty of van life, or the idea of climbing mountains every single day convince you otherwise. But instead, you said yes. And in doing so, you gave us some of the best memories of our lives.

We laughed. We struggled up mountains. We chanted “Tunnelenn!” We watched sunrises from the road and ate Soft Is like it was a competitive sport. And somehow, despite literally experiencing micro heart attacks, you still pushed us to hike further, climb higher, and see more.

Looking back, maybe you were the one keeping us going all along.

So, my friend—thank you. For being there, for making this trip what it was, and for continuing to be the adventurous, hilarious, and (now much healthier) soul that you are.

Here’s to many more hikes, more Soft Is stops, and fewer near-death experiences.

Much love,

-karl

P.S. Yulia, I’m sorry. 😬