“Let’s go to Vienna!” “Let’s go to Sarajevo!” “Let’s go to Belfast!” . . . says my wife.

And my go-to response? The very first loving words out of my mouth? Are . . .

NOOOOOOOOO WAY!

You see, my wife wants to see the world. I get it. We spent all our working years and kid-raising years never leaving Iowa (except for her stint with the UN in The Hague — which counts for something, doesn’t it?). Now that we are old, she wants to make up for lost time by going to see museums and castles and cafes and vineyards and mountains and oceans and the Eiffel Tower sparkle with lights. 

Nope. Not for me. 

I’m 71 years old. I’ve seen the Girl with a Pearl Earring. I’m a little tired, a little settled, and a little inflexible in every sense of that word.

But my wife scares me. So I always accompany her as a very hesitant travel companion. Which is the reason for this small guide, for those few like me who are just a bit dubious of this whole travel thing and would rather just go drink coffee on the back porch.

VIENNA

Picture this my fellow sufferers . . .

The opera aria soars across the square, past the fresh water station and the tall clock, across an angled street, and round the table of the Viennese gentleman who is drinking one glass too many, all the way to our table. We are sitting quietly with our wine outside a small cafe on this busy corner at the end of a workday in Vienna. 

The opera singer has a white cane in one hand and a small tip container in the other. He stares straight ahead. Blind, it appears. His voice booms with power and vibrato. I imagine he has no choice but to be great in this town. It’s Vienna — the home of Mozart and the grave of Beethoven. It’s a town that boasts of Schubert and Strauss and Mahler and Haydn. To sing in Vienna is to sing in the Big Leagues.

And for the next hour the blind man sings over the competing sounds of buses and trucks and cars and loud people. He stands tall, gripping his white cane, oblivious to the world. Unbending and unrelenting.

Well, that wasn’t horrible. But was it enough to overcome my dithering and skepticism about travel? Mmmmmm.

SARAJEVO

Excellent. You’re still here. Now imagine this . . .

Like spilled milk, the graves from the Bosnian war wind down the side of the mountain into Bascarija, the old town in Sarajevo.

Sarajevo’s shell-pocked buildings and mortar-scarred streets still remain witness to the over 500,000 bombs that fell on the town during the long siege of the city. A time that still hangs heavy.

From our perch we smell cooking meats and strong spices coming up from the old town. Delicious smells. We walk slowly down through the narrow streets, tasting our way toward the river.

Eventually, we walk past where Archduke Ferdinand and his wife Sophie were assassinated. This unassuming spot is only famous because the Archduke’s driver took a wrong right turn. Yup, you heard me correctly, a wrong right turn.

And if that wasn’t enough bad luck, the assassin, still carrying his gun and grenade and cyanide tablet from an earlier failed assassination attempt, looked up at just the right moment to see the Archduke take that wrong right turn — directly in front of him. Everything aligned in that one fateful moment.

And World War I started.

This infamous street corner is tiny, a little dirty, and a frequent stop on walking tours. Today, a street dog takes his afternoon nap on the historic spot. Yup, a street dog. 

And this is why you now have to cross the river to the cafe on the left bank and order real Bosnian coffee. If you are not clear-eyed about the quirkiness of history, you will be after drinking that strong punch in the gut. As for travel hesitancy, is it also history? Stay tuned.

BELFAST

And the final destination for all of us still dragging our travel feet . . .

It’s raining in Belfast. Not that fun misting rain that frequently hits these North Sea countries. Nope. This is an Iowa rain. Hard and cold and drenching.

We are here because my Dublin daughter and her Scottish partner are off listening to a band in downtown Belfast. So we are set free to wander the streets of Belfast. Alone. Parents off leash, is the way we see it.

But it’s pouring rain. We walk to the river, wet and a bit dispirited.

But wait! Look at that. There are crowds and street performers and make-shift tents and a Ferris wheel. It’s a street fair!

And the rain relents.

See, there’s a pirate walking on stilts. And there are mimes dressed as sailors. And there are costumed old-timey swimmers. And there’s food and drink and the good cheer of people undeterred by tough weather. And the rain comes and goes and comes.

We dip into a pub and order a pint. An older man sits on a stool at the front. A guitar near his side. Drinking a coffee. Eventually, he is joined by an even older leprechaun-looking man carrying a fiddle. After some laughter between the two, they settle in and begin to play. Traditional Irish music. Jigs and reels. Instrumental music and storytelling songs. 

On this cold and wet day in Belfast, we are momentarily in heaven. 

“Well, that’s enough of that,” as my mom used to say when things got to be too much fun. But is it finally enough of my travel hesitancy?

Got me.

But just today my wife said, “Joe, what about the Bahamas in November?” 

“No way!” was my go-to first thought. But really?

So my underwear is rolled into my spare shoes and my backpack is next to the bed and hesitancy is buried deep under my one flowery Hawaiian shirt. But do I really have to swim with pigs?

Joe