So there I was, standing on that rickety pier in Maine, when the tide whispered a secret only it could understand. It was a Tuesday—though it felt more like a Wednesday, if you catch my drift. You see, I've been hopping between days like a kid jumps between puddles after rain, only these puddles are vast oceans of moments waiting to be explored.
Last week, I found myself in 1972, right in the middle of a disco party that smelled distinctly of hairspray and freedom. A friend of a friend had mentioned a time-travel trick involving the rhythm of the waves, and let me tell you, the tide had a funky beat that night. I danced with a few folks who looked like they just stepped out of a Saturday Night Fever set, and we all shared a laugh about the ridiculousness of it. Time is, after all, just a stubborn wave refusing to crash, a dance that sometimes steps on your toes in the best possible way.
Ever wondered what it's like to sip coffee with a Victorian poet while dodging a steam engine? Yeah, that was last month's escapade. The poet was keen on discussing the morality of time travel, but I sidestepped the conversation with a question about his hat. Distracting, right? Pro tip: always compliment a Victorian's hat, it buys you time—and possibly a poetic tale of their own.