Postcard From The Ordinary, Yet Sacred

Last night, I took my mom out to dinner—a neighborhood dive bar called Spirit Grille that my family’s been frequenting for years.

As it often goes, it was last minute, casual, and just the two of us.

Our favorite server, Lara, brought over our drinks before even saying hello, then filled us in on last weekend’s chaotic trip back to Long Island to visit her family. She asked where my sister was and also wanted to know all about my 100-hour water fast.

Meanwhile, the same gentleman who’s been setting up the karaoke gear for decades spent our entire dinner going back and forth, wiping beads of sweat from his brow while he meticulously duct-taped wires to and from his fancy JBL standing speakers.

Hockey, baseball, and softball games plastered across the big screens hanging from above. A favorite tune of mine, Big Empty by STP, gently pulsed from the jukebox in the corner.

Across the table, I watched my mom’s face light up with child-like joy as she ordered her all-time favorite: the Spirit Burger & fries—no tomatoes, no pickles, add honey mustard.

While it all added up to an extremely ordinary scene in theory, everything in that moment felt just right.

No, this wasn’t Phnom Penh, Bangkok, or Ho Chi Minh City.

But it was… home.

My home.

And no matter how often I speak about feeling most alive, most inspired, and most liberated while I’m on the road—there will always be something special about being here.

Something that can’t be found or felt anywhere else in the world.

With Gratitude, Gusto, & Pickles,

Adrian ⚡️

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