I love portraiture. Not just for the technical aspect of creating the frame or the connection between subject and photographer (though those are pretty awesome reasons), but for the humanity it exposes.
The British Journal of Photography’s Portrait of Britain series (featured recently on PetaPixel) is a perfect example. Technically, these shots are absolute bangers. The lighting and composition are world-class. But that’s not why I kept scrolling through them. I’m fascinated by the glimpse they provide into the lives of others.
In a world that feels increasingly disconnected, these images are a reminder of our shared humanity. From the quiet moments to the bold expressions, every frame feels like an invitation to see the world through someone else’s eyes.
It’s a beautiful reminder that while we might be living through polarizing times, the tapestry we’re all woven into is a lot more vibrant than we think.
Over the winter break (we still call it that, right?), I got a text from a good friend. It consisted of the following: A link to the transcript of NYC Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s inaugural address and the message “Mamdani’s speech is GOOD!”
And it was.
Like me, my friend gets excited about good speechwriting. She’s the kind of person who notices not just what was said, but how it was said, why it worked, and all of the other intricacies that are invisible to the untrained eye.
“Equally as good as his nomination speech,” I replied.
As we were texting back and forth, one line from the article jumped out at me:
“Push yourself to think of speechwriting as more than just the written word.”
That sentence gets at something many communicators understand intuitively but don’t always articulate clearly — especially inside organizations that are increasingly oriented around systems, metrics, and optimization.
At its highest level, speechwriting isn’t just writing. It’s writing with performance in mind. It’s anticipating how words sound when spoken, not just how they read on a page. It’s understanding rhythm, pacing, emphasis, and silence. It’s knowing how ideas land when they leave the page and enter a room full of people with their own histories, assumptions, and distractions.
That’s where the real work is.
Julian Gerson’s contribution to Mamdani’s victory address deserves real, serious kudos. Among the elite pantheon of professional speechwriters throughout history, his work is already widely respected, not because it aims for flourish or cleverness, but because it shows discipline. The speech weaves political principle, history, lived experience, and strategic barbs deftly. It was built — not just written, but constructed — to be felt, not merely heard.
Across politics, business, and institutions more broadly, we’ve spent years treating influence as a technical problem. If we gather enough data, optimize the right channels, and scale distribution, we assume persuasion will follow. Language, in that model, becomes a surface layer, something to refine once the real work is done.
But the gap between communication and persuasion keeps widening.
I see organizations that communicate constantly and still struggle to align people around a shared direction. Leaders explain decisions clearly and are surprised when clarity doesn’t translate into commitment. Initiatives launch cleanly, with all the right mechanics in place, and then stall for reasons that no dashboard seems able to diagnose.
This isn’t an argument against data or technology. We need both. Data helps us understand conditions. Technology helps us move information efficiently. But neither creates meaning. Meaning still has to be constructed by someone who understands how ideas fit together and how language lands when it’s heard by real people. Data creates facts. Meaning creates movements.
That capacity — synthesis, interpretation, judgment expressed through words — is exactly what we’ve been training out of institutions.
Writing, rhetoric, and performance have been quietly downgraded to “soft skills” (a term I despise with the heat of a thousand suns), while technical fluency is treated as the primary marker of competence. The result is a mismatch between what organizations optimize for and what they actually need to move people.
The cost of that mismatch shows up in subtle but expensive ways: misalignment, disengagement, repeated explanations that don’t stick, and initiatives that consume time and resources without generating compounded momentum.
The reason the Mamdani victory speech resonated with so many professionals is not because it was novel, but because it met a standard of craft that has become surprisingly rare. People who work with language recognized what was happening because they know how difficult it is to do well.
This isn’t nostalgia for the liberal arts, and it isn’t an argument about prestige or tradition. It’s a practical assessment of capability. Reading, writing, argumentation, and interpretation are not indulgences. They are foundational tools for leadership, persuasion, and trust.
As automation increases and execution becomes cheaper, judgment becomes more valuable. Judgment is exercised through language — through deciding what matters, how ideas connect, and how to express that connection in a way others recognize as credible and worth acting on.
Technology and data remain indispensable. They describe conditions and expand reach. They don’t do the work of emotion. That work still falls to people who can think clearly and communicate with intention.
Over the past thirty-odd years, I’ve worked alongside some of the world’s top communications professionals in just about every setting imaginable — from big, Mad Men–style agencies to small, tech-focused boutiques to some of the world’s largest and most iconic companies. The clients change. The people change. But the qualities that define great communicators don’t. What stands out among the best of the best is a shared DNA in how they operate.
I’m not talking about people who are good on stage. I’m talking about people who shape how institutions are understood.
The brains and guts of the strongest comms pros are different than most people in their organizations. They live inside the company but see it from the outside: through the eyes of journalists, analysts, competitors, customers, regulators, and critics.
The qualities they possess are observable. And once you’ve seen them at work, they’re hard to unsee.
Perception: How They See
1. They see trends and signals earlier than others
They have really strong pattern recognition. They notice weak signals before they harden into headlines. While others are reacting to what’s already obvious, elite communicators are tracking the edges — the anomalies, the shifts in tone, the unexpected adjacencies. They see the trend before the trend report.
2. They have an innate sense of signal versus noise
They know what will trend versus what will be a blip. They can distinguish between genuine inflection points and temporary turbulence. They weight information instinctively, understanding context, source credibility, and momentum. In an age of infinite information, this filtering capacity is worth its weight in gold.
3. They are news junkies
It’s a compulsion. They read, watch, and listen to everything they can. Fiction, non-fiction, news, gossip…doesn’t matter. They can’t turn it off. They cannot help but consume, connect, and contextualize.
4. They are deeply engaged with their organization’s community
They know influence requires proximity. They spend time with the people they speak for and about, learning the context, the language, the tensions, and the unwritten rules. They connect people who should know each other and ideas that are complementary.
Synthesis: How They Think
5. They make connections others struggle to find
They are pathologically curious. They connect dinner conversation to market dynamics to historical precedent without trying. Their minds naturally cross-reference: a customer complaint reminds them of a competitive pattern, which recalls a regulatory shift, which suggests a narrative opportunity. Their knowledge base is unusually broad and weirdly interconnected.
6. They think three steps after the action
They don’t think in actions; they think in chains of consequence. If this story lands, what will it enable others to say next? They map the second-order and third-order effects while everyone else is still celebrating the first-order win. They see how today’s press release constrains next quarter’s positioning. They understand that every announcement is also an invitation — to competitors, to critics, to copycats — and they anticipate the response before sending the invitation.
7. They operate effectively in ambiguity
They’re comfortable in the fog. They counsel on limited information and instinct because complete data rarely exists.
8. They see their organizations from the outside-in
They are like human LIDAR, constantly scanning and absorbing signals. They look at the company as the outside world would, not employees. They can hold both “we believe in this company” and “here’s how a skeptical journalist will frame this” in their minds simultaneously. They are the organization’s common sense.
Narrative: How They Shape Meaning
9. They write masterfully
They know clear writing reflects clear thinking and clear strategy. They believe every word matters. They abhor corporate jargon and buzzwords. They can craft a compelling story in 160 characters or 5,000 words with equal skill.
10. They are master storytellers
They communicate in stories, not messages. They believe every organization has a Hollywood blockbuster waiting to get out. They understand story arcs, protagonists, villains. They read and watch and listen voraciously, constantly studying how great narratives actually work.
Judgment & Restraint: How They Protect the Enterprise
11. They are pessimistic optimists
They are inherently paranoid while looking for the silver lining. They game out how things could go wrong. The joke that doesn’t land. The claim that gets challenged. The announcement that triggers the opposite reaction. That defensive imagination is what makes their optimism trustworthy.
12. They remain calm under pressure
They are the human behind “company spokesperson said.” When everything around them is hair-on-fire, they slow the room. They separate stress response from decision-making with eerie consistency. They know what matters, what can wait, and what absolutely must or cannot be said.
Not every idea deserves to live. But plenty of good ones die before they get a chance. They vanish under the weight of calendars, inboxes, and interruptions — the thousand small frictions that erase a thought before it has time to become something real.
Leonardo da Vinci lived this problem as fully as anyone we remember. His notebooks are filled with flashes of brilliance that never moved an inch toward becoming real. They reveal a mind where ideas arrived faster than execution, and a compulsion to record them, even when they might never be completed. They stayed ink on paper. Imagine if he’d had something to carry those sparks just a little further.
Today, we do.
AI gives us the inch Leonardo never had: not just a way to keep an idea alive, but a way to work it before it’s fully formed. A sentence can be pushed, expanded, challenged. A paragraph can be reshaped or broken apart. A rough draft becomes something you can interrogate. All of it quickly enough to learn whether there’s anything there worth shaping at all.
But that inch isn’t enough.
Ideas still need something only humans provide: judgment.
I learned this early in my career working with Mike Zisman and Larry Prusak on IBM’s knowledge management business (well, they worked on it; I helped them communicate it). Much of that work, as I remember it, centered on the difference and interplay between explicit and implicit knowledge. What you can write down versus what you simply know. Facts versus instinct.
AI is extraordinary at the explicit. It can generate variations, surface patterns, and produce options at scale. But it can’t do the tacit work. It can’t feel the off-note in a promising idea or sense when something ordinary is pointing to something deeper. It can generate possibilities, but it can’t tell the signal from the static or decide which ones matter.
AI raises the premium on expertise. When ideas become cheap and abundant, discernment becomes scarce. The advantage shifts to people who can interpret what AI produces with context. They implicitly know when to push an idea further, when to reshape it, and when to let it go.
That shift changes what expertise actually looks like. It’s no longer defined by how many ideas you can generate, but by how well you can tell which ones hold up under pressure. When beginnings are cheap, judgment is knowing which ones are worth the effort.
This is the consequence of getting the inch Leonardo never had. AI widens the funnel of possibility, but it doesn’t make sense of what flows through it. It accelerates ideas without considering what happens when they meet reality.
That responsibility now belongs to us.
AI can extend a thought, multiply it, and push it forward faster than ever before. But it can’t decide what matters. That decision is what turns an inch into something real.
I’ve long argued that clear writing is the surest sign of clear thinking. Putting words to paper or screen forces choices, imposes structure, and strips away clutter. Writing creates clarity.
AI hasn’t changed that. It has simply added the illusion that anyone can be the next Stephen King. But there’s only one Stephen King. Two, if you count Richard Bachman. Okay, three if you count that Joe Hill fella. But the idea that a prompt can turn anyone into a seasoned writer is a load of crap.
When AI-assisted writing works, it works because the thinking behind it was clear in the first place (something Oxide’s Bryan Cantrill echoes in this public RFD). Someone came to the tool with context, intent, and a point of view. The AI helped with execution. The hard brainwork was already in motion.
When the thinking isn’t there, AI fails fast. It spits out surface-level sludge that puts pretty nouns and verbs neatly together. It falls apart the second you break the surface. The author didn’t outsource writing; they outsourced thinking. And that’s, how shall I say it…bad.
Clear writing still reveals clear thinking. AI doesn’t change that; it just makes it obvious who’s actually thinking before they hit the prompt.
The Domain of Experience
AI has become the domain of the “olds”.
Veterans who know what good thinking looks like, who bring years of pattern recognition and judgment, and can use AI to sharpen their output. They have the experience to spot logical gaps, recognize weak arguments, and know when something sounds good to their ears but feels wrong in their gut.
Getting great content out of AIs is difficult. It takes a lot of work and rework. Just imagine walking up to a smart person on the street and saying “make me an adventure” and expecting it to be anywhere near good. In the hands of experts, though, I think you could get great content. And, you could probably get more content. — Cote, The AI Apprentice’s Adventures
Newer writers often stop at the first prompt because the output looks clean and convincing. The problem is that polish isn’t the same as insight or depth. Without the judgment that comes from wrestling with ideas and words over time, it’s harder to see when the model is basically just winging it.
This reality is the defining rule of the AI age. Computing has always relied on its shorthand maxims, starting with the 1960s classic: Garbage in, garbage out. AI has simply added its own corollary: Wisdom in, resonance out.
AI doesn’t invent wisdom; it mirrors the quality of the mind engaging with it. Thin prompts yield thin answers. But when you bring experience, nuance, and constraint to the table, the system reflects that back with greater fidelity. In the end, the limiting factor isn’t the model. It’s the judgment of the person using it.
AI as Sparring Partner
The real promise of AI is not as a replacement for thinking, but as its most rigorous catalyst yet. Used well, it forces you to test your thinking instead of skating past it. You have to question what it gives you, push on the weak spots, and decide what actually earns the right to stay on the page (or screen, as it may be). The tool widens your aperature, but the judgment is still yours.
Use it as a sparring partner and the ideas get sharper. Most people don’t push that far, and that’s where the trouble starts. Those who do and get the most out of AI aren’t offloading the thinking. They’re pushing it further. The risk is the urge to take the shortcut.
Garbage thinking still produces garbage writing. AI just hides it better.
I hadn’t driven a stick shift in decades. But there I was, backing our rental car down a steep road through a hilltop village, stone walls on one side, parked cars on the other, a growing line of vehicles behind me…and a delivery truck wedged between both walls blocking the way forward.
The driver tried to squeeze through a one-lane passage barely wider than our rental, let alone a box truck. It parked itself mid-village, blocking the entire road. There was no getting around it. Everyone would need to reverse their way out.
From stoops, balconies, and doorways, the town’s residents paused what they were doing to solve this real-life game of Jenga. Arms waved, fingers pointed, instructions barked.
I inched the car backward feeling for that old gas-clutch balance. At the bottom of the hill, I found enough room to stop and catch my breath. The truck passed with inches to spare (and I’m being generous using the plural here). I shifted back into first gear, eased back up the hill, and rolled past the villagers who had already returned to their daily routines.
Growing up, we lived across from my elementary school. My mom would take my brother and me to its empty parking lot in the evenings to practice driving. But the real lesson happened on the gravel hill that led up to it. She’d stop the car, a yellow Chevy Chevette, right in the middle of the incline. Set the parking brake. Switch seats.
And then she’d walk us through it: ease off the brake, balance the clutch and gas, lower the handbrake at the exact right second, and try not to stall or spin the tires. Just feel it.
That sweat-inducing moment in Filoti brought me back to those practice sessions on the hill. Muscle memory and great teaching for the win. It’s these unscripted moments that become the stories you carry home — the ones you scribble on the back of the postcard, the parts the picture on the front can’t tell.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Greece has no shortage of postcard moments — whitewashed villages, cerulean seas, epic mythology. Yet the version that stayed with me was different. It was roadside olive trees and lazy taverna lunches. It was a man watering down the dusty street in front of his seaside café. It was barking and snarling dogs chasing us on a dirt road as we pedaled past their domain.
This is Greece as I saw it. You won’t see me or my traveling companions in these photos because I am admittedly incapable of seeing snapshots when I’m given the opportunity to create something more artful. But the people I traveled with are behind every frame…and, usually, a few hundred yards ahead waiting for me.
Santorini: The Cover Shot
Santorini is widely referred to as the screen saver of Greece. You already know what it looks like: whitewashed buildings, cobalt domes, cliffs that drop into the deep. And yet, it still stops you cold when you see it for real.
We stayed at Iconic Santorini, a boutique cave hotel in Imerovigli – the balcony of the Aegean, as it is often called. As hack as it sounds, this was the kind of place that makes you whisper without realizing it or knowing why.
Santorini’s dramatic topography is shaped by fire. The crescent-shaped island forms part of a vast volcanic caldera, the result of a major eruption that happened around 1600 BCE, an event so cataclysmic, many believe it inspired the legend of Atlantis and contributed to the collapse of the Minoan civilization. Today, its volcanic past continues to shape every aspect of the island, including the unconventional methods used in local winemaking.
Forget everything you know about neat rows of vertical vines. Santorini’s vineyards grow in braided, ground-level kouloura coils untouched by phylloxera that turn each plant into a fortress against the relentless Aegean winds. The pumice-rich earth, the lasting echo of that cataclysmic eruption 3,600 years ago, acts as a reservoir, hoarding moisture from the morning mist like a sponge. It’s a centuries-old adaptation to brutal winds and sparse, volcanic soil. We sipped that history at three vineyards: Domaine Sigalas, Anhydrous Winery, and Santo Wines, the latter where we capped off our first day with a spectacular welcome-to-Greece sunset.
The next morning, while our wives checked out the island’s black sand beaches and lounged at JoJo’s Beach Bar, Tim and I took off on a mountain biking tour with Ride Greece guide and former pro cyclist Alessio Toninelli. Do you know what happens when a volcano erupts? It creates a big hole and big hills. Luckily, Alessio equipped us with electric-assist bikes that helped us climb switchbacks to the top of the island, through vineyards and forgotten villages, past crumbling chapels, windmills and sun-baked olive trees, one of the last tomato farms on the island, and down to the sea. There’s a difference between seeing a place and being in it. On a bike, you’re in it. You feel the burn of the climbs in your legs (even with the welcomed battery assist), the grit in your teeth, the smells of wild oregano in a cliffside field, the air as it changes temperature and texture.
That evening, we boarded a 42-foot catamaran with Sunset Oia for a cruise into the caldera. Departing from the port of Ammoudi, our captain shoved off to the hot springs where we jumped off into the 500 meter deep abyss. Back on board, we motored to White Beach, where we dropped anchor and enjoyed an onboard dinner of shrimp pasta, fresh sea bass, and what would become one of many daily Greek salads. Finally, anchor up, we headed for port and watched as the sun dipped below the horizon, transforming Santorini’s blue sky into a palette of pastels.
On our last day in Santorini, we hiked the Fira-to-Oia trail — five dusty miles along the caldera’s ridge. Well, sort of along the ridge. First we had to go up to get to it. And then down. And then back up again. Along the way, Jenn adorned a signpost with one of my Cousin Eddie stickers. If you do the hike, keep an eye out for it.
We ended our time on Santorini with a dinner for the ages. Our friend Joan recommended a restaurant in Oia called Lycabetus. It was once featured on the cover of National Geographic magazine, with cliffside tables jutting out high above the Aegean and the massive yachts anchored below. We scored a table and went all in on the chef’s tasting menu. Course after course that would’ve made Carmen Berzatto weep: molecular gazpacho, Wagyu tartare, truffle bonbons, and caviar…and more caviar.
Naxos: Island Time
If Santorini is the front of the postcard, Naxos is what’s written on the back. It’s the island that stayed with me long after the trip.
We reached the island by high-speed SeaJet ferry, a TGV or Eurostar on water if you will. At our villa, Milestones in Plaka, our host, Fotis, greeted us with homemade citron liqueur, sweet marinated grapes his mother made, and chilled plum rosé. It was more than a welcome gift; it reflected one of the highest virtues in Greek culture: philoxenia, the ancient tradition of hospitality, which I’m told translates as “friend to the stranger.” The word, and the practice it describes, is woven deep into Greek history, appearing as far back as Homer’s Iliad.
Fotis’s family also owned Peppermint, one of the open-air restaurants along the beach about 500 meters from the villa. Spa-like music drifted through the air. We ordered a couple pints of Mythos. The entire vibe oozed peace and calm. Tim and I nodded off while the local cat sauntered between tree branches and a lounge chair cushion. Amidst the calm, a waitress shuttled nonstop drinks from the bar down to the beach. Out on the water, novice windsurfers popped up and down on the cool blue and green water. One of Fotis’s brothers stood at the edge of the road with a hose spraying down the dirt to keep the dust down. A steady breeze blew. We ordered a few more rounds and sat watching the sea.
Somewhere in that beer and zen soaked haze I sent a quick post to social media. My friend James in the United Kingdom replied. He wanted to know if we were headed to Athens. If we were, we had to book a table at Pharaoh.
I trust James on these matters. From an intimate dinner in Chicago celebrating the anniversary of the firm he co-founded, to the annual family-style gathering at The Honey Paw in Portland, he’s Pied Piper’ed me to amazing restaurants and late night speakeasies open long after every other bar’s last call. If he says get to Pharaoh, then Pharaoh it is. I booked the table from my phone, toes pointed to the sea. Technology lets us do some pretty incredible things. Luckily for me, it’s also allowed me to make friends who live all over this amazing flying space rock we call Earth.
The next morning, things got slightly less tranquil. That’s when we took the drive I mentioned earlier, the one with the stalled truck and the sudden reminder that I hadn’t properly driven a stick shift since the Reagan administration.
Under a canopy of grapevines at Taverna Giannis in Chalki, we lunched on fire-grilled feta dosed with chili oil and tomatoes, fried Gruyère balls, and yet another Greek salad. A few doors down, I stopped to taste a homemade bougatsa at Caffe Greco, a tiny cafe tucked into one of Chalki’s quiet alleys.
Back in the car, we took a turn into the mountains, winding through hairpin roads and avoiding the occasional goat. We dropped into a small valley town that didn’t seem to have much interest in signage or exits. The only way out was the way we came in. Back up we went. I was sensing a pattern.
Back at our villa, Jenn and I hustled over to the harbor to watch the sunset. The Portara rose ahead of us, the great marble doorway that has become the emblem of Naxos. It stands on the little islet of Palatia, joined to Naxos by a narrow causeway, and is the first sight that greets travelers as the ferries arrive. The gateway was meant to be part of a grand temple to Apollo, begun in the sixth century BC under the rule of Lygdamis. His plans ended with his downfall, leaving only this solitary entrance.
As our time on Naxos came to a close, we joined Katerina of Real Wanderers Tasting Tours for an evening walk through the town. She guided us into quiet backstreets and into small shops we would never have found alone. Along the way she explained why the island is known more for its farms than its fishing: in the early centuries, fear of pirates drove people inland, and the mountains became their refuge.
We tasted olives pressed from a tree said to be six thousand years old, sampled cheeses as Katerina shared bits of history. She founded her tour company only two years ago, but her knowledge and energy made it feel like a lifetime’s work. Born on Naxos, she had studied in Athens, returned home, and stayed.
While we waited at the dock for the girls to finish shopping, the town lights flickered once and went out. Diners continued their meals, a busker kept strumming his guitar, and couples and families carried on with their Grecian passegiata along the harbor. It was one of those reminders that life on an island moves to its own rhythm.
Crete: Scale and Soul
Crete feels entirely different from Santorini and Naxos. It is a vast island with long stretches of coastline, dense vegetation, and mountains that rise sharply from the sea. Driving along the coast at sunset reminded me of the rugged beauty of northern California. After weeks of Pantone-perfect Greek island blue, it held something we had not yet seen on this trip: a cloud. Just one, but still.
We had dinner around the corner from our apartment at Steki, a lively restaurant crowded with locals. We shared a liter of white wine and another Greek salad. Tim and I order the 800g pork steak, clearly not doing the gram-to-pound conversion correctly. Nearly a pound and a half each dangled from a hook above our plates. The meal ended with the traditional dessert and a shot of raki.
It’s probably a good moment to pause and talk about raki. Every dinner on Crete ends with a glass of it. Every dinner. Raki is the island’s national drink, made from the residue of fresh grapes during the winemaking process. More than a potent alcohol, it’s a traditional symbol of friendship and hospitality. And, unlike ouzo, which we drank in copious amounts on this trip, raki is never diluted with water. It’s comparable to Italian grappa, which, I am convinced, translates directly to jet fuel.
Sunday morning I was awakened by the clanging of church bells. I’m not a religious man, but I have to admit I enjoy the community aspect of bells. I experienced something similar during a trip to Sorrento and during the calls to prayer I heard in Dubai and Abu Dhabi. I poured an espresso and sat on the veranda. A light breeze blew, chatter murmured from the street below, chants and song resonated from the altar across the street. The sounds rose slowly as the town woke up.
We grabbed breakfast at the open air restaurant below our apartment. Over coffee and eggs, we struck up a conversation with our server, Anna. In broken English and even broker Greek, we learned that she was named after her grandmother, who — according to Anna and who am I to argue — was an amazing woman not only for her age but also for her era.
Tim and Donna headed out to get their Colorado on, tackling the famous Samaria Gorge and its high vertical walls and cold stream crossings. Jenn and I were beach-bound. Or so we thought.
Getting to the beach wasn’t supposed to be hard. I mean, Greece is loaded with some of the world’s best. But Chania’s taxi scene…well, let’s just call it less-than-tourist-friendly. Not totally surprised. All the pre-trip research said local transportation was near-non-existent in Chania (and Crete in general). Taxis passed by and the drivers intentionally looked away. Yes, I checked to see if I had a booger hanging out of my nose. Eventually, we flagged one down. A nice woman named Maria who had lived on Crete for the past two decades. We tried giving our spot to an elderly local gentleman who was also waiting, but she insisted we go. Almost forced it. Not sure if that was a cultural thing, but hoping karma remembers we really did try to do the right thing. Maria dropped us off at Agii Apistoli Beach, only to find it blanketed in occupied umbrellas. We walked a half kilometer to Sunset Beach and paid our 10 Euros, grabbed a chair, and posted up. Be a traveler, not a tourist, as Tony says.
Regrouped and refreshed, we joined a personal, evening food tour led by Manos, sampling incredible young olive oils and an orange blossom honey that was to-die-for. We finished in Splantzia, Chania’s Turkish quarter, enjoying mezze and pints that pushed us beyond our limits. I love how Europeans have these streets and courtyards full of tables with people bantering about while nibbling on a constant stream of small plates and drink. Life with public squares sure beats life with parking lots.
The next morning, we woke up early, sauntered down to breakfast again at The Red Bicycle, and said goodbye to Anna. We then met up with our driver for the day, Manos (yes, another Manos, whose name, he said, was short for Emanuel from Zeus). Manos took us on an 8 hour tour of the island where we visited small towns and beaches.
Manos told us about Crete’s 3,500-year-old Vuvas olive tree — slightly younger than Naxos’s. It was fun to see the competition between the two islands for whose tree was oldest. Manos also schooled us on why Crete’s roadways are lined with oleander: The plant is poisonous to the goats that roam the island and serves as a natural fence to prevent them from wandering onto the road.
As we drove on, the road wound toward the coast, where we traded olive groves for the turquoise water of one of the world’s most iconic beaches. Elafonissi Beach is famous for its pink sand created by crushed shell fragments. Its fame preceded our arrival, however, and no umbrellas or loungers were to be found. So we waded into the water, downed a cold beer, and bailed for Falasarna Beach.
Falasarna is known for its wide, fire-hot sandy beaches, and crystal clear water. It’s the calm yin to Elafonissi’s energetic yang. We grabbed a lounge bed, ordered some food and a bottle of wine, swam a little, ordered some more wine, and spent the afternoon in relaxing bliss.
On our post-dinner walk through the old town back to the apartment, we heard music coming from an alley. People were leisurely milling about outside a jazz bar called Fagotto. We poked our heads inside to see two musicians playing on a small stage near the bar. Guitarist Adedeji Adetayo and keyboardist Asterios Papastamatakis were on fire. We grabbed a table, ordered a round of drinks, and spent the evening like locals. It was the perfect way to end the Crete leg of our trip.
Athens: The Afterimage
The alarm sounded way too early after last night’s bourbon and jazz. We hopped a 35-minute flight to Athens, leaving an island of twisty mountain roads and landing in a sprawling city with proper highways. We weren’t on island time anymore.
Athens is one of Europe’s oldest continuously inhabited cities, a sprawling metropolis with a history spanning more than 3,400 years. From atop Lycabettus Hill, where our driver Apostolis — Tolis to his friends — pulled over to let us take in the view, the city stretched wide below us, a reflection of its growth into a modern capital that weaves ancient ruins into a bustling urban landscape.
Tolis expertly shuttled us to a few of Athens’s must-see highlights, refining his comedy routine along the way. We made a quick stop at the Olympic Stadium and caught the changing of the presidential guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in front of the parliament building. The guards, with their distinctive pleated kilts, hats in red symbolizing blood, and shoes that weighed nearly five pounds each, are part of an elite light infantry unit with a history dating back to the Greek War of Independence.
We checked into our place in Psyri, which had a rooftop lounge with a clear view of the Parthenon and the Acropolis. More on that in a bit. On the walk back, we stumbled into a local bakery — bags of water and wine already throwing off my balance — and basically cleaned them out. We stuffed the bags with one of everything they made.
By the time we got back, the smell of the pastries had us thinking about dinner. We found a small restaurant called Miravilla Kitchen that had recently opened. It was situated in the opposite direction most visitors ever bother to go. The street getting there was a little rough and tumble, but when we turned the corner, the whole mood shifted. Neighborhood energy. Laughter. And a rooster dish to die for.
The next morning, we did what anyone visiting Greece is required to do: toured the Acropolis. The walk up wound past scattered columns and marble fragments, reminders that Athens is as much an ongoing excavation as it is a modern city. Our guide, a teacher on summer break (and still very much in teacher mode), filled the climb with a semester’s worth of history.
The hill itself is shot through with quartz, she said. Great for ancient builders, not so great for modern cell service. The Greeks were engineers and mathematicians as much as artists, and nowhere is that clearer than at the top.
The Parthenon, the central temple on the Acropolis, was constructed between 447 and 432 BCE during Athens’ Golden Age under Pericles and dedicated to Athena. Its structure exemplifies the sophisticated abilities of the Greek builders. To achieve a level of divine perfection worthy of their patron goddess, architects employed complex optical refinements: the base rises, columns exhibit a subtle swell, and every column leans slightly inward. These precise, costly adjustments were designed to counteract human visual distortion, acting as a powerful declaration of Athens’ wealth, genius, and supreme devotion to Athena.
After hours of sun, stone, and centuries of context, we decided we’d earned something a little different: a catamaran sunset cruise along the Athenian coast.
The next day, we wandered through art galleries in Kolonaki, a neighborhood that feels equal parts culture and couture. We stopped for an impromptu — and far more elegant than we probably deserved — cocktail at the King George Hotel, a 19th-century landmark once built as an annex to the Greek palace.
Afterward, I roamed solo for a while. Just wandered. That’s usually when I find my favorite images. I stumbled onto a covered market shaped like a cross or maybe a crossroads. Butchers and fishmongers were busy calling, chopping, and carving.
Later, I parked myself at a table in the square a few blocks from our apartment and ordered a Mythos. Sitting there, I practiced one phrase: “Éna akóma kai patát” — one more Mythos and fries.
Okay, maybe it was more than one more. My flâneur mode was fully engaged. Third places are essential. You feel it everywhere in Europe — cafés, squares, stoops — and you realize how much America gave up when it chose cars over conversation.
The Real Magic
On our last night in Greece, we finally made it to Pharaoh, the restaurant James had messaged me about back in Naxos (followed by craft cocktails at The Clumsies). The four of us sat at a small table, the city easing into evening outside. The meal was exactly the right capstone to our time in Greece.
Somewhere between courses and bottles of wine, it struck me that James’ message was more than a recommendation, it was proof of the real magic of travel. The world, it turns out, is smaller than we think. The more you see, taste, and hear, the closer everything feels. Different languages, foods, and landscapes, but a shared connection underneath it all. The best parts — the ones that stay with you — are the moments you share with the people closest to you, wherever you happen to be.
I have an embarrassingly large television screen hanging on my living room wall. 85” of LED goodness. Almost went for the 100” version, but the Costco deals were only so good. Tacked some Govee LEDs to the back that magically reflect colors from the scenes on the screen to the wall and really give it that movie-theater effect. It’s orders of magnitude better than the best theater I went to growing up (which, if you grew up in small-town northwestern New Jersey, you know was The Strand).
The Strand is, sadly, no more. And even that oversized home setup can’t match the experience I had watching the Jaws / Saturday Night Fever double feature in that $1-a-ticket, red velvet-on-the-walls theater.
There’s something special about seeing a flick in a theater, as this Guardian story points out (thanks to James for the link). The experience of watching a film on the big — bigger — screen, the smell of popcorn, the trailers, the collective energy of the audience…it’s something that simply cannot be replicated at home. It’s a communal experience that allows us to escape reality for a couple of hours, drawing us into different worlds and stories that linger long after the credits roll.
My wife and I have a monthly subscription to Regal’s all-you-can-watch movie pass. Earlier this week, while she hosted friends writing postcards to get out the vote, I slipped out to catch a late showing of Stephen King’s The Long Walk.
I got there a little early. The theater was empty. I grabbed a seat smack dab in the middle. As the pre-rolls started, I expected others to wander in. Then the trailers rolled and…nobody. I had the theater to myself — just me, a tub of popcorn, and a King classic on the screen. It was like my living room, except it wasn’t. It still felt different from sitting on a couch, even if the seat reclined far enough to nearly put me flat.
Somewhere between the last trailer and the first line of dialogue, I realized how rare it is to give one thing your full attention anymore. No phone. No second screen. Just story. That kind of presence is what makes movie theaters special. And it’s the same muscle that good storytelling in any form depends on.
My career has been built on storytelling. Immersing myself in stories — in books, on screens, in lyrics — has taught me how to tell better ones. You start to see how structure works, how characters build over time, how rhythm and silence carry meaning. You hear real dialogue and learn how much can be said without saying anything at all. That’s the craft.
My neighborhood poker buddies once asked how I seemed to know so much about so many random things. I told them it’s my job to make connections. You never know when something Taylor Swift does will tie back to a new computing operating system. Maybe it won’t. Maybe it will. Either way, that’s how the dots get made. And I also reminded them not to ask me the second, deeper questions about any of those topics.
It’s why I implore PR rookies, and even my peers, to ignore the business books. Fill their nightstands and Kindles with works of fiction. Go to the trashy late-night movie. Spend the rainy Sunday morning watching a black-and-white Turner Classic. Because getting good at this work isn’t about mastering the message, it’s about learning to see, listen, and connect.
I could’ve waited to see The Long Walk when it hit one of the streaming services. It would’ve been fine. But the magic of the theater is that it puts you somewhere else — a different place, a different mindset. The same goes for the stories we tell in our day jobs. Not to remind people they’re working, but to give them a story they can actually feel — something that lets them experience what we’re trying to communicate.
On opening night of Monktoberfest, I caught a quick photo of the four authors of the new Progressive Delivery book on a boat in Casco Bay – Heidi Waterhouse, Kim Harrison, Adam Zimman, and James Governor. I added it to a thread Heidi posted to Bluesky about the book launch.
I would have written alt text for that photo. I’m in the habit for the most part and do my best to think about others. But for a quick reply post? The mental overhead often adds more friction than the value of the reply, slowing me down enough that I will sometimes consider skipping it. With AI, it took seconds.
When I post photos to Bluesky, I use a custom prompt/GPT to write the alt text. It describes what’s in the image, how it feels, and what someone who can’t see it might want to know. It’s a really basic prompt and I’m sure there are a bunch more like it out there. Here it is for reference:
Create alt text for images posted to this chat. Review the image and provide descriptive text that helps a user with no or limited sight understand and experience the visual image. The description must fit in 2,000 characters.
This sounds trivial until you realize how rarely it happens. Most images posted online have no alt text at all. Not because people don’t care about accessibility, but because describing an image takes mental energy that’s already been spent capturing and posting it. The moment has passed.
For me, AI removes that friction. I upload an image, the system drafts a description, I tweak it if necessary. It’s a quick trip from finder to AI to post. Suddenly accessibility becomes the default.
When I was more active than I am today on Mastodon’s Hachyderm instance, this was built right into the image upload. One click. The AI-assisted descriptions made that norm easy to follow.
Now personal prompts and custom GPTs make this available anywhere. Don’t get me wrong: AI can’t replace the human eye and brain. It sometimes misses nuance, gets details wrong, can’t read tone the way you intended (or numbers and letters; but I digress). But it gives you a starting point.
Here’s what changes: when you add alt text consistently, you start noticing when others don’t. You see how many images float through your feed inaccessible to screen readers, meaningless to anyone who can’t see them. You realize how much gets shared with the assumption that everyone experiences it the same way.
This is what good technology does. It removes the small obstacles that keep good intentions from becoming consistent practice.
This past weekend, I drove back to my alma mater to celebrate the retirement of one of the most influential people in my career: Professor Kim Pearson.
The celebration may be over, but in true Professor Kim fashion, my LinkedIn feed is still alive with her comments and posts, connecting and amplifying the people in her orbit. Because while the job may be done, the work isn’t. Not when it’s part of who you are.
I was a student at TSC (now The College of New Jersey) during Professor Kim’s rookie year. Even then, she was a force. Her PR and writing classes gave us real-world experience while serving the community. More importantly, Professor Kim challenged us to think bigger about the world around us and the humans in it.
Not to go full Daniel-san and Mr. Miyagi, but I’ve carried Professor Kim’s teachings with me ever since. She made me a better PR professional and a better person. There aren’t many people who leave a mark that lasts decades. Kim did and continues to. I’m grateful to be one of lucky few who had the privilege to learn from her.
I’ve had some luck as a photographer. A portrait I shot once graced a big Times Square billboard. An image I captured at a student rally made its way into The New York Times. I’ve been in position to capture Tour de France winners, Broadway stars, and even a former President. But if you had told me one of my images would someday be used in the opening credits of a documentary series directed by bona fide Hollywood legends, I’d have laughed.
Yet, here I am.
About a month ago, my phone buzzed (I’m old, but I’m not ringer-on old). It was my friend Tom, asking if I could do a quick shoot for a project he’d been working on. For the past few years, Tom has been part of a talented team of filmmakers creating a multi-part documentary series based in our hometown of Doylestown and the surrounding area. The series, Bucks County, USA, dives deep into the divisions and tribalism plaguing the nation.
Evi and Vanessa, two 14-year-olds living in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, are best friends despite their opposing political beliefs. As nationwide disputes over public education explode into vitriol and division in their hometown, the girls and others in the community fight to discover the humanity in “the other side.”
It premiered this week at the Sundance Film Festival. The documentary is co-directed by the legendary Barry Levinson—Academy Award winner for Rain Man—and Robert May, producer of The Station Agent and executive producer of the Oscar-winning documentary The Fog of War.
One of the images I created serves as the backdrop for the opening title credits. Having a frame I created play a small role in a film premiering at Sundance is an honor beyond words. But what’s even more meaningful is playing a small part in amplifying this important, timely story.
(Note: The header image for this post is from the Sundance program.)
Mike Maney 