“On the 10th” Newsletter
The Leap That Changed Everything
June 10th. A date etched in my story — and maybe the reason I help you write yours.
(Longer than usual — about a 10 mins read— but trust me, it’s worth it.)
Every month on the 10th, I drop some travel wisdom and wanderlust therapy. But this one hits different. June 10th marks the day my dad passed, many years ago — and honoring him feels bigger than any travel tip or packing hack. So this month, it’s not just a newsletter. It’s a tribute.
A tribute to the boldest solo journey I’ve ever known: my dad’s one-way leap from India to America.
Late 1960s. No cell phones. No FaceTime. Not even affordable calls home. Just grit, a dream, and a suitcase that had seen better decades. He left most of his family behind to chase the American Dream — a leap that didn’t just change his life, but completely rewrote mine.
He kept a diary back then. Not poetic — just raw. Entry after entry:
“Went looking for work. Found nothing. Will try again tomorrow.”
That wasn’t journaling. That was a mission statement. The blueprint for bouncing back. The manual for making moves when the world keeps saying "nope."
His version of travel? Pure survival. No lounges or upgrades — just necessity and a one-way ticket. And yet, because he made that leap, I get to roam the world with a kind of freedom he could only dream of. That irony never leaves me.
Seven days a week, year after year, he ran a deli in Queens. Built our life one sandwich, one B.E.C., one hero at a time. Vacations? Maybe once to Disney. A few trips to visit family. But the real adventure? Sitting at the register together while he rested for five minutes. We didn’t need fancy — we had each other.
That work ethic? It rubbed off early. Every day after school meant heading to the deli, and summers (till I was 22) were spent working to help out the family business. Life lessons in entrepreneurship, business management, and hustle weren’t taught in some MBA classroom, but behind a counter with mustard on my hands and customers waiting. That was my real education.
He had wanderlust — no doubt. Wanted to see the world, revisit India, reconnect with old friends. Life had other plans. Dialysis changed everything. The longer trips stopped. But that restless spark inside him? Never did.
So now, when I travel, it’s not just for me. Through my eyes, he’s navigating Seoul’s chaos, marveling at Peruvian peaks, standing slack-jawed in the Serengeti. I’m his international correspondent — filing dispatches from every place he never got to see.
What he passed down wasn’t just genetics — it was a whole operating system.
The hustle. The discipline. The “sleep when you’re dead” mentality.
That bulletproof belief that today’s “no” is tomorrow’s “maybe.”
Even the tough-love parenting that made me roll my eyes back then? Now I see it for what it was: love disguised as life prep. (And let’s be real — a little more of that wouldn’t hurt this participation-trophy generation.)
If I could call him now, I’d say:
“I was 32 when you left. Still had questions. Thought we had more time. But look — I’ve grown up, seen the world, and built something you’d be proud of. You lit the fuse. I’ve been running with it ever since. You and Mom built the runway. I’m still building on it.
When I stood on the deck of the cabin I bought — peaceful, quiet — I wished you were there. Sipping masala chai, talking stocks, just like old times.
You taught me resilience. You taught me how to build. That foundation? I’m still standing on it. Still climbing. And wherever you are, I hope the view’s good.” - love, your son
Father’s Day is near, and I’ll be whispering mine to the sky.
But for everyone reading this - if you can, say yours out loud — while you still can.
I am my father’s son.
#IYKYK
“He didn’t live long enough to see how far I’d go. But he’s the reason I ever Roam at all.”
Will Try Again Tomorrow: The Travel Hustle
One line from my dad’s diary still hits different: "Went looking for work. Found nothing. Will try again tomorrow."
That wasn’t journaling — that was a mission statement. A blueprint for bouncing back. A mindset I’ve inherited — and deployed — for everything from career moves and fitness goals (still a work in progress) to showing up for people when it matters most.
Here’s the thing: travel is basically life with a passport. Plans fall apart. Weather shifts. Your body occasionally files a formal complaint. But that’s not the bug — that’s the feature. The magic lives in the mayhem. In the pivot. In the “Plan B” that ends up being better than Plan A.
Exhibit A: Kilimanjaro. I trained like Rocky, visualized the summit, prepped with purpose. Altitude laughed in my face. I didn’t make it. And yeah — it stung. I sulked. It bothered me for a while. That mountain humbled me. But you know what? I tried something way out of my comfort zone. I pushed myself to a place most people I know have never been. I made it to 14,000–15,000 feet before turning back — and that’s no small thing.
Eventually, I channeled the sting into motion. I launched into a redemption tour: Five Boro Bike Tour. Half marathon. Obstacle runs. Four straight weekends of sweat, soreness, and proof that the climb may have stopped, but I didn’t.
And here’s the twist: on that so-called “failed” hike, I gained something better — a fellow hiker who became a lifelong friend. We explored Moshi, met locals, shared meals. Twelve years later, we’re still close — he lives in Hamburg with his wife and kid. We meet up around the world.
The summit? Still there. The friendship? Worth more than any peak.
That’s the New York way of traveling: adapt, improvise, find opportunity in the chaos.
Solo travel amplifies all of this. Strangers become dinner companions. Moments of kindness become memories that stick for life. I collect those moments the way a true New Yorker collects opinions — one from every stop.
But here’s what solo travel really does: it strips away assumptions and rebuilds your worldview.
In Japan, silence on trains is respect. In Italy, a two-hour lunch is civilization. In Morocco, haggling is tradition. In Argentina, dinner starts at 9 p.m. — because connection matters more than clocks. In India, organized chaos is a form of flow — you either fight it or you join the dance.
Cultures aren’t just Instagram backdrops — they’re living philosophies.
You realize what feels “normal” is just one version of reality — yours. Every place has its own rhythm, its own rules, its own reasons. And the more you witness, the more flexible and open you become. Travel doesn’t just change your location — it changes your lens.
And many Americans? We need this. We live in bubbles. We think our way is the only way. Solo travel doesn’t just pop that bubble — it explodes it. The most challenging people and places often become your greatest teachers.
The real souvenir? It’s not a keychain — it’s perspective. A broader mind. A deeper respect for the wild complexity of being human.
And it’s not just about solo travel. Some of my best travel memories came with coworkers. Long layovers turned into deep conversations. Shared meals turned teammates into chosen family. We all went our separate ways eventually, but those bonds stuck — and we’re still close to this day.
Because travel pushes you out of your comfort zone and into your growth zone.
First solo dinner? Awkward. After that? You’re holding court. Unfamiliar train routes, menus you can’t pronounce, saying yes when your gut says “nope” — that becomes your street cred.
Every trip starts with nerves and ends with, “Did that just happen?” That full-body rush — the mix of freedom, wonder, and deep aliveness — that’s what keeps me coming back.
And it’s what I deliver for my clients. I’m not just a travel advisor. I’m a memory architect. VIP access. Surprise upgrades. Spine-tingling moments. This isn’t about checking boxes — it’s about crafting the kind of stories you’ll be telling at dinner parties for years to come.
So when the universe serves up chaos? When your plans detour hard?
Take a breath. Dust off. Recalibrate.
Just like my dad did in Queens, with nothing but hustle and hope.
Just like I did when Kilimanjaro knocked me down.
Just like any New Yorker worth their metro card — built to rise.
The summit’s still there. The story’s still being written.
The next chapter’s always one “tomorrow” away.
“Try again tomorrow”.
That’s how stories become legacies.
“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you.”
