A Jamaican Experience: Honeymoon: A Journey Through Light and Distance

By: Baron Stewart

Honeymoon: A Journey Through Light and Distance

Barcelona: The Opening Frame

This was Berkeley's first trip to Europe, and I wanted to show her everything—the hot spots I had either heard about or experienced myself. She was wide-eyed with curiosity, and I was thrilled to be her guide, companion, and partner in discovery.

One thing we both loved, maybe even needed, was photography. I carried my Nikon—faithful, rugged, reliable. She brought her Leica, that quiet, elegant little machine with lenses that seemed to drink in light. Her eye was sharper than mine—more poetic. I composed like a documentarian; she composed like a dreamer.

Barcelona was a blank page for both of us. I had never been, but I had long carried fantasies of it. We would ramble along the Ramblas together, camera straps slung across our bodies like sashes of purpose, stopping every few steps to frame a corner, a face, a moment. I imagined the two of us documenting everything in sight, then sitting in cafés comparing our images like two painters holding their sketches to the sun.

Arrival

We landed early in the morning, the Barcelona light still soft and tentative, like the day was stretching itself awake. The airport buzzed with unfamiliar accents and the kind of travel energy that makes even fatigue feel like anticipation.

We had booked a hotel right on the Ramblas—prime territory. I had chosen it deliberately, wanting to drop right into the city's heart, step out the door, and straight into the rhythm of Barcelona. My mind was full of expectations: camera in hand, map in my pocket, street scenes unfolding like film reels I had only imagined until now.

When we arrived at the hotel, I dropped my bags, practically vibrating with energy. I turned to Berkeley, ready to hit the streets.

But she was already drawing the curtains closed.

Before I could say anything, she slipped under the luxurious white blankets, curled up with a satisfied sigh. She was going to sleep.

I stood there for a moment, baffled. Wasn't she excited? Didn't she want to grab her Leica and join me on this adventure? I had imagined us rushing out together, eyes wide, snapping photos of everything in sight. Instead, she vanished into the sheets, letting the city wait.

She told me later it was the softness of the bed, the feel of the sheets, the weight of the pillows—that after the long flight, they seduced her. I laughed when she said it, eventually. At the time, though, I felt that quiet dissonance of traveling as a couple: two bodies in the same place, on different clocks.

Still, something was tender about it—her surrender to comfort, my restless eagerness. We were starting our journey together, but we each took a different state at that moment.

Wandering Alone

While Berkeley slept, I took to the streets alone. My Nikon felt heavier than usual, not because of its weight, but because I had imagined this first day differently—imagined us moving in sync, photographing together, sharing first impressions like secrets.

Barcelona dazzled, but I moved through it with muted awe. I snapped pictures—shadows on tiled walls, children chasing pigeons, an older man reading beside a fountain. The camera became my company, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was photographing for two. I hadn't married to see the world alone. I'd married to share it—with her.

She woke up that evening, fresh-faced and glowing from her nap, and we found a small bistro just around the corner from our hotel. The lighting was low and warm, the wine crisp, and the food spectacular—just as I had expected, maybe even hoped. Over dinner, we found our rhythm again. We talked about tomorrow, walking the Ramblas together, and where we'd go next. I could feel the trip beginning to bloom.

The next day, we finally did what I'd dreamed of—we strolled the Ramblas side by side, stopping for coffee, photos, or nothing. We walked to the port, the breeze salty and bright, our cameras clicking in gentle conversation.

That night, we found a flamenco show tucked inside one of the venues off the Ramblas. The dancers stomped and spun like the room itself was on fire. Berkeley's eyes lit up—she had never seen anything like it. Neither had I. At that moment, it felt like the actual start of our honeymoon.

I had hoped to visit Mallorca next—Amanda, a friend from London, had a vacation home there and had extended an open invitation. But, travel plans have a way of reshaping themselves. That fell through, so we booked tickets on a ferry to Ibiza instead.

A shift in the wind.

And we were ready to follow it.

Ibiza: Into the Light

We took the ferry from Barcelona to Ibiza overnight. It was one of those gently surreal crossings—darkness all around, the engine's hume, the sense of drifting across water and deeper into our honeymoon. Berkeley was finally hitting her stride. She brought out her Leica, and we took turns photographing the low light of the night—the glow of distant port cities, shadows of fellow passengers dozing on benches, and reflections of stars on the sea.

There was something quiet and intimate about that ride—no big declarations. Just shutter clicks, shared glances, the occasional squeeze of the hand.

We docked early the following day, the sky still pale and sleepy. Rented a small car—something low to the ground, slightly beat-up—and drove off toward our resort. The place itself was forgettable, honestly. Clean enough, but nothing special. No charm. No story. But that didn't matter.

Because the island was the story.

Driving through Ibiza felt like gliding through a Mediterranean dream—sun-baked cliffs, deep blue coves, groves of olive trees. We stumbled upon nude beaches, where the bodies—sun-kissed, unselfconscious—seemed to belong to another, freer world. Berkeley smiled at my fascination. The women were beautiful, yes—but it wasn't lust. It was admiration—a kind of reverence for the elemental beauty of the place and the people who let themselves dissolve into it.

Ibiza Town was vibrant and relaxed all at once. We wandered the narrow streets, peeked into boutiques and galleries, and took hundreds of photos. Our cameras never left our shoulders.

That weekend, we slowed down, letting go of itineraries and letting the sun, the sea, and the strangeness of it all take over. We made love in the middle of the afternoon, napped in beach towels, laughed over simple meals, and stayed up late talking about places we still wanted to see.

On Monday, we caught the ferry back to Barcelona, both a little more sunburnt, a little more in sync, and a little more ready for the next chapter.

Avignon: Between Curiosity and Celebration

We decided to rent a car and drive from Barcelona to Avignon—not for the scenery alone, though the coastline didn't disappoint, but because my young friend Jose was getting married there that week. She was 21, a former au pair from the Village days in New York. We had stayed in touch. I was curious to see the man she was marrying and the life she was about to build.

The drive was long but luminous—coastal light flickering off the Mediterranean as we passed through Perpignan, then Arles, and finally turned inland toward Avignon. It was July, and the air shimmered with heat and promise.

When we arrived, the city was alive. The Avignon Festival was in full swing—actors and dancers spilling out of cafés, costumes brushing against tourists, music around every corner, street art, and language everywhere.

We toured the Palace of the Popes and wandered its vast, echoing halls. It felt like walking through a stone heart that had stopped beating long ago. Then there was the famous Pont d'Avignon—the bridge to nowhere—stretching out halfway across the Rhône before it abruptly ended. We stood at its edge, laughing at its absurdity and marveling at how something unfinished could still feel grand.

Street musicians played everywhere—some good, some spectacular. One flamenco guitarist held the square silent for a full five minutes. And the food—God, the food—was a revelation. Even the most straightforward meal tasted elevated, like the French knew something the rest of us had only guessed at.

We never made it to Jose's wedding. It was scheduled for later in the week; by then, we'd already set our sights eastward. But being there—catching just a glimpse of her new world, the pulse of the city she would call home—felt like enough.

Nice into Monaco: A Lesson in Surprise

We headed to Nice through Aix-en-Provence, and Berkeley and I argued somewhere along the way. She loved to drive, but I didn't. She wanted to take the high, mountainous roads she saw on the map, but I resisted—my fear of heights outweighed any desire for dramatic views.

We debated until we finally compromised and stuck to the main highway. It was a little boring for her, but perfect for me. The tension dissolved when we reached Nice and walked along the Promenade des Anglais.

The next day, we took a short drive to Monaco. I had long fantasized about visiting the Casino de Monte-Carlo—maybe placing a bet or two, to say I had. But Berkeley wasn't interested. She didn't even want to go inside. That surprised me. I thought she'd be swept up in the glamour, the spectacle. But she stayed calm and detached.

We walked around the outside, took some photos, and lingered among the luxury cars and tourists dressed like extras in a Bond film. But we didn't cross the threshold.

People are different. They are different from you and who you imagined they would be.

I wasn't disappointed that night as we drove back along the glittering coastline. I was a little more aware and more attuned to the woman beside me.

Florence: Where the Journey Opens

We got rid of the car in Nice and took a train to Florence. We stayed at the Balestri Hotel, where I had stayed at least twice before. It felt like coming home to a city I already loved.

I took Berkeley straight to a street artist I had met on a previous trip. I had once invited him to dinner, but he had politely declined. I never knew why. But when I returned to Berkeley, something changed. He lit up, sketched her gracefully, then invited us for drinks.

That night, he invited us—along with two American tourists, one of whom used a wheelchair—to a festival in the Tuscan countryside. To make it possible for them to come, he rented a motorbike with a sidecar for the girl in the wheelchair. Just like that. No grand gesture. Just kindness.

We went with his brother, riding for over an hour until we reached a Communist festival in a village that felt untouched by time. The food and activities were simple. But the music—guitar, voices, songs rising into the dark—was unforgettable. Bats flew overhead, silhouettes against the stars.

That night was not in any guidebook. It was messy and magical. And it became the beating heart of our trip.

Venice & Beyond: A Marriage in Motion

From Florence, we took the train to Venice. Gondolas, canals, the obligatory ride through narrow waters—it was all there—and somehow, it didn't feel clichéd. We arrived just in time for a local festival with fireworks, music, and crowds.

It felt like Italy was celebrating our marriage.

We left Venice happy. It is not perfect without disagreements but it is closer and more in sync. The rhythm of the trip, the rhythm of marriage, was starting to make sense.

We spent a couple of quieter days in Milan. Walked. Ate. Reflected.

And then we flew back to New York—in time to celebrate our birthdays at a Mets game.

Reflection: Learning to Travel Together

Before Berkeley, I had spent years traveling with women—three years with Sundarii and two summers with Veronika. I thought I knew what it meant to share the road with someone. But this was different. This was marriage. This was Berkeley's first time in Europe, and with each new city, each train, each hotel check-in, we were not only discovering new places—we were finding the nuances of each other.

I didn't expect the tension that crept in whenever we moved locations. Looking back, I realize that international travel was still foreign to her, and the rhythm I was used to—move, absorb, move again—wasn't easy for her to adjust to. When we stayed in one place for a few days, she relaxed. But the energy shifted as soon as it was time to pack up and leave. I didn't fully understand that then.

In truth, I was beginning to learn about myself—my shortcomings, my strengths—as a husband. There was no manual for this. My first marriage hadn't taught me the emotional tools I needed. Empathy wasn't something I'd been trained in. It took years of missed cues and moments of distance to understand what was happening between us in those early trips.

And yet, we stayed married for thirty years. That, to me, means something. It means success—not because it was easy, but because we kept choosing each other. We kept traveling—not just across countries but across the shifting landscapes of who we were becoming.