Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Three
Cookies, K-Pop, and Bowling Balls
About the Series
Wander, Wonder, Write is a travel memoir in motion—part homeschool field trip, part healing journey, and part K-pop dance party across continents. Told in snapshots from military lodging and long walks through unfamiliar streets, the series follows a father and daughter as they travel Space-A on a loosely planned adventure through east Asia. Along the way, there are reflections on family, recovery, missed years, quiet grace, and the improbable beauty of the present moment. It’s not a guidebook—it’s a love letter to wandering, to wondering, and to writing your way home.
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This is part three in the series. Parts one and two are available below.
Introduction
Day two at Travis Air Force Base, and we’re officially in vacation purgatory—the awkward layover of domestic stillness before the international adventure really kicks off. But make no mistake: we made the most of it.
The morning began with golden rays blooming over the eastern hills. I brewed a pot of coffee and stood at the kitchen sink watching the light creep over the green mountain peaks, drinking it all in with no hurry or concern. I did my morning routine of meditation, reading, journaling and reflecting. The girl woke up around 7:30am, hair askew, bleary eyes. I greeted her with coffee, which she sipped in silence for a few minutes.
Soon we had mapped out the day over breakfast like field generals. Because we are here for the entire day, we decided would treat it like a proper school day, with a few extra treats thrown in for good measure. We relocated to the base library (because the Wi-Fi at the apartment was more of a suggestion than a service). Turns out, Air Force libraries are very nice. Like, “you-could-get-married-here” nice.
We got a ton done. My daughter blazed through Algebra, history, literature, composition, French, and her reading. I wrapped up lingering work, then triumphantly activated my out-of-office reply: “I will not check this email for the next two weeks… buzz off!” It felt amazing.
Then: cookies!
Early on, we made it a point to teach our kids what we considered the basic essentials of life—starting with how to cook. By the time they were ten, both were helping with one meal a week under light supervision. By twelve, they each took charge of an entire meal on their own. Cooking has always been a shared family joy, but baking is my daughter’s domain. She loves baking for others—brownies for guests, muffins for concert band rehearsals, cookies for whomever, whenever.
We had bought all the raw ingredients for several batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies. She insisted it would be a shame to let them go to waste. I couldn’t disagree.
With cookies in the oven, we settled in for an episode of our new favorite show. At one point, as she sat down beside me and handed me a plate of gooey, melty perfection, she said, “I just love that I can bake cookies and watch TV with you. That’s all I want to do right now.”
How did I get so lucky?
Next up: the post office. A 1.5-mile walk in the California sun, soundtracked by an impromptu K-pop dance party down the sidewalk. Drivers stared. Pedestrians gave us wide berths.
We danced harder.
We are not from around here.
We stopped and did a few rounds of pull ups outside one of the barracks. Then, just beyond the post office, past the rows of concrete and chain-link fence that marked the edge of the base, the world changed.
A wide expanse of green opened up before us—rolling pastures that looked like they’d been lifted from a storybook. The grass was thick and impossibly vibrant, peppered with clusters of bright yellow wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze like they were trying to get our attention. At the far edge of the field, a line of trees stood tall and still, their silhouettes softened by the afternoon haze.
And there, in the middle of it all, were horses.
Dozens of them, scattered across the pasture like oversized chess pieces, grazing quietly in small groups or standing alone in dignified solitude. Their coats gleamed in the sun—shades of chestnut, black, and dappled gray—rippling as they twitched their flanks or flicked their tails to keep the flies at bay. One of them looked up, ears twitching, and regarded us for a long moment before returning to its patch of grass. The whole scene felt surreal, like we’d stumbled into a pastoral painting or one of those slow-motion nature reels designed to make you cry for no reason.
My daughter and I stopped talking and just stood there. Side by side, leaning on the fence, not needing to say anything at all. The air smelled of warm grass and dust. The wind was soft on our skin. It was quiet in a way that makes you realize how loud the world usually is.
We stayed like that for a long time.
It wasn’t a planned stop. It wasn’t a destination. But it was where we were, and we were grateful for that.
Then came The Great Migration—another 2.5 miles on foot, this time to the far side of the base for a supply run at the Military Exchange. Somewhere between the laundry detergent aisle and the snack section, we slid into one of those deep, meandering father-daughter conversations. Relationships. Boys. Independence. Babies. (Her stance: hard no. Mine: a gentle “someday maybe.”)
She’s at that age where anything that sounds preordained or culturally prescribed gets the immediate side-eye. She insists she’s not like everyone else—and she’s right. I reassure her, again and again, that however she chooses to live her life, I’ll support her. And I mean it. At this stage, I’m just grateful to be along for the ride.
We returned to the apartment, footsore but committed, and finished our respective to-do lists. I made baked chicken with peas while she practiced her dance moves in the living room, occasionally stopping to explain why K-pop choreography should absolutely be considered an Olympic event.
As I listened to the rhythm of her steps—bare feet slapping the floor in patterns she’d memorized from hours of practice—while rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen with warmth, something in me paused.
I thought back to just a few years ago, to a time when these kinds of moments felt impossible. When I would travel just to avoid being home. Not because they didn’t love me—but because I didn’t know how to receive it. Stillness felt dangerous then. Their love was overwhelming, almost threatening, and I had demons I couldn’t name. Distance felt safer than presence. And so I missed out on some of the best years—because I didn’t yet know how to stay.
And yet here I am. Standing in the kitchen of a temporary apartment, two days into a two-week trip, baking dinner while my daughter dances and laughs and draws me into her world without effort or hesitation.
Something amazing has happened.
I don’t know exactly when it did. It wasn’t a grand moment or sudden shift. It happened gradually—one day at a time. One conversation at a time. One decision, one small act of staying, again and again. Little things that became big things. Small mercies that became healing.
And somehow… here I am.
With our bellies full and dishes washed, we decide to head out for a father-daughter date night. There’s a bowling alley a few blocks away, so we head there to do what the locals do.
The base bowling alley was everything you’d expect: neon lights, blaring music, birthday parties, and bumper lanes. Rebecca refused the bumpers on principle. “How will I ever get good if I cheat!?” she asked. Spoken like someone who’s genetically related to me.
After the first game, which featured a drastically uneven score, my daughter did something clever. She took my ball and returned it to the rack. Then, searching for a few moments, she brought me a new ball.
“This is your new ball now” she said with a triumphant smile. It was 15 pounds, with finger holes so big I could lose a car key inside. My game suffered, my pride took a hit, and my arm may fall off tomorrow. But with my handicap in place, our game was much more evenly matched, and more importantly, she had a much better time. Her score topped mine a few times. She danced, laughed, and kept hiding my phone when I wasn’t looking. I caught the eyes of several other men in the alley, all of whom seemed to enjoy watching the two of us gallivant around in silliness. We bowled six games in two hours. My cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so much.
Back at the apartment, we collapsed. Full. Sore. Happy.
Tomorrow’s flight is scheduled: 2pm departure to Korea via Honolulu and Guam. We’ll be in the air forever. But for now? California gave us one last gift—a full day of everything we love.
Let the adventures begin.
About the Author
ES Vorm, PhD is a combat veteran, uniformed scientist, and recovering overachiever currently on sabbatical from saving the world. These days, he can be found making coffee, homeschooling his precocious teenager, and trying not to cry at children’s animated TV shows. He writes about the messiness of healing, acceptance, and finding meaning in the middle of everyday messes. This travel series is part of a much longer process of learning how to stay put—even while on the move.