Category: Travel

Let Freedom Ring

Let Freedom Ring

I first penned this essay back in April of 2019. It still remains one of my favorite pieces. Happy Birthday, America!

Final Four? I don’t care. I guess I’m a sore loser. The minute Kentucky gets eliminated in the NCAA tournament, I just want to get as far away from basketball as possible. In 2017, right after UNC’s Luke Maye sent the Wildcats prematurely packing, I immediately started packing for my own trip to Turks and Caicos. When Kansas State upset the Big Blue a year later, I booked the first flight out for the Florida Gulf Coast. In 2019, unfortunately, I headed out early again—to someplace far away from Minneapolis, where I could put overtime losses to Bruce Pearl completely out of sight and out of mind.

You see, less than twenty-four hours after returning from the disappointment in Kansas City, I was stuffing my suitcase for Washington, DC. I’ve been there many times over the course of my lifetime, but never while the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. I was killing two birds with one stone on this trip—making my wife happy and NOT watching basketball during the first weekend in April.

Ah, the memories came flooding back. My first visit to our nation’s capital was with my mom and dad back in the mid-1960s. As newly minted, starry-eyed, first-generation immigrants from China, my parents wanted to show firsthand—to their number one son—the sights and symbols representing their personal pursuit of the American dream. Where better than Washington, DC, where founding fathers and freedom fighters named Washington, Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln stood sentinel over democracy? Granted, I was only six years old at the time, but something deep down inside of me still resonated with this Land of Opportunity. Even back then, the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness sounded pretty darned good to me.

I returned to DC again in the early 1980s, this time as a recent college graduate, indoctrinated with the liberal agenda and misguided cynicism flowing out of all university campuses. The city had a different vibe for me this time around. Thoughts of American imperialism, social injustice, and racial inequality sadly replaced the wide-eyed innocence of my earlier visit. With malice towards none; charity for all suddenly became a slogan that pipedreams were made of. Not going to happen in this America, I surmised at the time.

I returned to Washington again in the early 1990s, a thirty-something professional with a beautiful wife and one-year-old daughter in tow. Ten years in the military with a stint living overseas, and my thoughts on America had changed. The good ole’ USA was now all about capitalism—making a buck, keeping up with the Joneses, and paying off your mortgage. To me, DC represented all that was worth striving for—the money of the Federal Reserve, the power on Capitol Hill, and the status of the West Wing. I have a dream. It was a different dream than Dr. Martin Luther King had, but it was my dream, nonetheless.

And now, nearly three decades later, I’m back again—armed with a lifetime of experiences and a bucketload of supposedly new wisdom. It’s somewhat bittersweet. My mom has since passed, my daughter is all grown up, and I’ve been retired and put out to pasture. On a beautiful sunny weekday morning, I stroll leisurely along the National Mall, with plenty of time to ruminate about life’s regrets, growing old, and what America has meant to me.

Over a half a century as a naturalized American citizen gives me a perspective grounded mostly in gratitude. I’m grateful for many things—a fine education, access to health care, and languorous walks with my dog. But as I pause in front of all the different war memorials, I realize that the thing I’m mostly grateful for in America is freedom. Freedom to speak, write, gather, and worship as I choose. The United States of America still has its faults, but in terms of individual freedom, it remains the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

Walking up the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, I’m reminded that with freedom comes responsibility. Freedom isn’t free. Many have died fighting for it. “May we think of freedom, not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.” (author unknown)

Our Founding Fathers got it right in the beginning. “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…” May Washington, DC, remain forever a bastion of liberty and a beacon for democracy. Let freedom ring!

By the way, the cherry blossoms were beautiful in April. My wife is happy. Final Four? Who does Duke play again?

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. If you enjoy his writing, please check out his newest book, “Whining for Posterity,” available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FDLCGR1P

The Things You Do on Vacation That You’d Never Do at Home: A Spanish Confession

The Things You Do on Vacation That You’d Never Do at Home: A Spanish Confession

There are things I do on vacation that I’d never—ever—do at home.

Like walking 30,000 steps a day without even realizing it. Or eating a double scoop of gelato twice a day for ten straight days. Or running through the streets of Madrid at sunrise, pretending I’m training for the Running of the Bulls—when in reality, I just needed to justify that fourth tapa.

Spain does something to a man.

It started in Mallorca—an island paradise where even the olives and goat cheese just taste different. I landed there with noble intentions: journal my thoughts like Hemingway, observe the culture like a wise old soul, eat modestly. By day two, I was fully converted to Spanish vacation mode: buying pastries like the new Publix just opened, napping like it was my birthright, and ordering churros with chocolate just to feel like I belonged.

From Mallorca, it was on to Seville, where the sun is hot (107 degrees hot), the flamenco is hotter, and I began living life by the empanada. In Seville, I discovered that eating tapas isn’t just about food—it’s a philosophy. A way of sampling life one delicious, questionably healthy bite at a time.

On a day trip to Córdoba, I strolled through the Mezquita in silence, pretending I was a thoughtful wanderer like old Papa Hemingway himself. What would Ernest have written about these mosaic arches and quiet courtyards? Probably something deep and tragic. I mostly just thought about lunch.

Then it was on to Granada—by train, of course. Because in Spain, trains aren’t just a mode of transportation; they’re a way of life. Smooth, punctual, and entirely unintelligible if you don’t speak the language. I spent much of my time staring at the departure board like it was the Rosetta Stone, my high school Spanish offering little consolation to my malfunctioning Google Translate app.

In Granada, the Alhambra ruins made me feel both very small and very blessed. The detail! The history! The surrounding view! The stairs! So many stairs.

By the time we arrived in Madrid, my legs were numb, my stomach perpetually full, and my heart wide open. Madrid is a city that moves—fast, loud, bold—but also knows how to slow down for a three-hour dinner and a midnight stroll. I woke early to run through the streets, dodging pigeons and pastelerías, attempting to sweat out last night’s chorizo.

And honestly? Running the streets is still the best way to get to know a city. In a strange land where I don’t speak the language and every corner holds something unexpected—a street musician, a café, a cathedral—I feel like I can run forever. Untethered. Without a care or thought for the burdens awaiting me back home.

And that’s the magic of it. The freedom. The permission to be someone different for a little while. Slowing down. Listening more. Laughing freely. Being present.

But the best part? The part that no amount of tapas, gelato, or flamenco shows could match?

I got to travel with my daughter. How many old geezers get to spend two whole weeks traipsing the Iberian Peninsula alone with their precious little girl?

Katie’s all grown now—wise, worldly, and entirely too fluent in the ways of train travel and Google Maps. She led the way through alleyways and marketplaces, museums and miradores. She handled the bookings, translated the menus, and reminded me gently (but persistently) to wear sunscreen.

But most importantly, she shared herself. We talked about life and faith and food. We watched sunsets and street performers and people from every corner of the globe. And in those quiet moments between destinations, I saw glimpses of who she’s become—and maybe, just maybe, she saw me as a dad she’ll still always look up to.

So yes, I do things on vacation I would never do at home.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because when you step out of your routine, off your turf, and into a world where you don’t know the language or the rules or what’s in your soup, you also step into possibility. Into wonder. Into grace.

And if you’re lucky—really lucky—you step into memories that will stay with you forever.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. His newest book, Whining for Posterity, releases on July 1.

A Walk in the Woods

A Walk in the Woods

Left to right: me, Beau, Trent, Mike (kneeling), Billy, and Andy in front of Charit Creek Lodge.

This blog posting is based on a recent real-life event. The names have been changed to protect me from the wrath of my friends.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with nature. On one hand, I love being outdoors, traveling the world, and gazing at the marvelous wonders of God’s creation. On the other hand, I’ve always hated up-close encounters with mosquitos, poison ivy, and the occasional venomous snake.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m no pansy, no stranger to sleeping on hard ground. As kids, our family camped in a tent all the time. We spent many a weekends and summer vacations “roughing it” at the various state and national parks. On top of that, nearly ten years in the military hardened me to the rigors of outdoor latrines, forced road marches, and barely palatable meals out of a pouch.

Even now, I still don’t mind at all carrying a heavy pack and eating beef jerky during the course of an arduous hike up a mountain. But at the end of the day, I’d much prefer retiring to a big bowl of lobster bisque, a pulsating hot shower, and some smooth satin sheets at your neighborhood Embassy Suites—if you know what I mean.

So, you can understand my hesitancy in signing up for an overnight stay at the Charit Creek Lodge in northern Tennessee. The Embassy Suites it’s not. Like many other accommodations run by the National Parks Service, it’s a mere couple of bunk-bed cabins in an isolated clearing out in the middle of nowhere. You have to hike in from a designated trailhead, there’s no electricity, internet, or cell service on site, and many hungry bears supposedly roam the surrounding trails toiling for food.

There are eight of us preparing for this sojourn for the soul, mostly acquaintances from church looking to reconnect with each other and disconnect from life’s stresses for a mere couple of days. Shortly before we embark, however, two guys drop out due to sore back issues, making me question whether my bad bout with plantar fasciitis should make me pull the plug as well.

Despite my lingering reticence, I decide to go for it and head out on the three-hour drive to the remote vantage point along the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River. My five other fellow hikers arrive shortly thereafter, locked and loaded and raring to go.

John, Andy, Mike, Beau, Trent, and Billy

Mike, our fearless leader and trip organizer, is the antithesis of myself. He loves being out in the elements more than life itself. Don’t be fooled by his calm and disarming grandfatherly appearance. Inside, he’s as energetic as an ambitious young Sherpa, looking to summit the next Mount Everest in the blink of an eye.

We all fall in step onto the meandering forest path. Beau, an accomplished trail runner, leads the way. He could cover this ground in no time flat but takes pity on the rest of us huffing through the dense forest foliage. Fortunately, Beau gives us plenty of rest breaks as we admire the towering rock cliffs and rhododendron blooms engulfing our senses.

Speaking of senses, I fall in behind Billy, who’ll talk your ear off. At seventy-eight years young, he’s still going strong—hiking these trails while guys half his age relax on the couch and suck air. You talk about the ultimate flex. And I thought I was keeping myself in relatively decent shape. Go ahead, Billy, kick sand in my face.

Andy and Trent complete the ranks. Every group like ours needs an Andy—an experienced paramedic at your beck and call who’s ready to treat the inevitable twisted ankle or surprise bee sting anaphylaxis with equal aplomb. Our group is blessed also with somebody like Trent—agreeable and amenable and SO DARN NICE. If you can’t get along with Trent, you’ve got a big problem.

We arrive at the lodge in plenty of time for dinner. Gary, our host, runs an impressive one-man show. This evening, he’s the concierge, housekeeper, and chef all rolled into one. And boy, can he cook. I was expecting spam and celery sticks. Instead, we get roasted pork tenderloin, a scrumptious bean casserole, macaroni and cheese baked with love, and biscuits to die for. Throw in some chocolate cake for dessert, and we’re definitely in culinary heaven.

What’s more, I find out that Charit Creek Lodge has running water—hot showers and flush toilets included in the nightly rate. HALLELUJAH! That indoor toilet seat never felt so comfortable. Now, just find me a way to snuff out snoring from my bunkmates, and I’ll check out a very happy man.

Honestly though, as great as the scenery, food, and accommodations were on this trip, the best part about this awesome experience was the fellowship involved. There’s something to be said about camaraderie and esprit de corps—especially among a group of such godly and spiritual men friends in such an austere and natural setting. Sitting in those rocking chairs on our moonlit cabin porch, we had some insightful and brutally honest discussions regarding our faults, our failings, and surviving some rather horrific life’s challenges.

But through it all, God also showered us with wisdom, humility and compassion toward each other. As iron sharpens iron, we also sharpened one another with our stories of survival and triumph. Our Lord reminded us that although the gate to eternal life remains narrow, many great saints have already blazed a wide path for those of us who wish to follow through together. It’s a distinct honor and privilege for us to plod on through.

After some gully-washing thunderstorms and a hike to the magnificent twin arches the next day, I headed back to civilization with a sense of renewal and encouragement. I guarantee you all six of my brothers did likewise. We all understood how we’d just been enormously blessed.

If you’re considering a similar type of “retreat-type” experience in the near future, don’t hesitate to hold it at the Charit Creek Lodge http://www.ccl-bsf.com/. Mosquitos, thunderstorms, snoring bunkmates—and bad feet—be damned, a walk in the woods always works wonders for your soul.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. He currently serves as a freelance reporter and sports columnist. He is the author/coauthor of four books, Cut To The Chase, Kentucky Passion, From The Rafters Of Rupp, and Serving Up Winners. You can follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.