When you think back on the trips you’ve taken, what comes to mind first?
Probably the big moments — seeing a famous landmark for the first time, catching up with family, or finally checking something off your bucket list. But if you’re anything like me, it’s often the smaller moments that stick. The kind that sneak up on you and end up being the ones you remember most.
This past Thanksgiving, my husband and I headed to the East Coast to visit his family — a little Nova Scotia, a little New Brunswick. Somewhere between the two provinces, we decided to do something a bit different and take the train. Neither of us had ever been on a passenger train before, but we weren’t in any rush, so we figured, why not?
We were a bit lost on what to do, so we found a bench while we waited to board and asked a lady if we could sit beside her. Little did we know, we’d just met our travel buddy for the day — Debbie. She’d taken the train plenty of times before and was headed all the way to Quebec to see her family.
Once we got on board, Debbie showed us the ropes: where to find the bar cart (very important) and how to make the most of the ride. Over coffee, we chatted about where we were all headed, what our daily lives were like, what we did back home, and before we knew it, five hours had flown by. We said our goodbyes when we reached New Brunswick — strangers that morning, friends by the afternoon.
The next memory that stands out came on Thanksgiving Sunday, when we gathered at my husband’s aunt and uncle’s place for dinner. The house smelled amazing — turkey roasting, laughter filling the kitchen — and I noticed something special cooling on the counter: Uncle Conrad’s homemade apple pie.
Now, anyone who knows me knows I have a serious sweet tooth. I’m more of an expert at eating dessert than making it, but I can still appreciate a good pie — especially one with a handmade crust. Uncle Conrad had even picked the apples himself the day before.
After dinner, I made sure to save room for dessert. I got the first slice — slightly warm, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream — and it was pure bliss. Naturally, I went back for seconds. Before we left that night, Uncle Conrad shared his recipe with me. It was written in French, but thankfully, my twelve years of French immersion kicked in just enough for me to decipher it.
Those are the kinds of memories I hold onto. Not the flashy or far-off experiences, but the simple, human ones — sharing a conversation with a kind stranger, or the first bite of a homemade pie.
Because when you look back, it’s not always the places that make a trip special — it’s the people (and sometimes the desserts) you find along the way. ~
