A Jamaican Experience: The Second Time Through

By: Baron Stewart

The first time we traveled to Europe, we were honeymooners—carrying cameras and expectations, still learning each other’s rhythms. That journey was full of discovery and friction. We didn’t always move in sync. The second time, we brought more than passports and lenses. We got a toddler, and Berkeley was pregnant with our second child. But what could’ve been chaos somehow became our calmest journey yet.

We moved easily through London, Paris, and Avignon—not because the cities had changed, but because we had.

Berkeley, once tense and wary on our honeymoon, was now unshakable. There was a quiet clarity in her this time. There was no rush, no edge—just a kind of grace that absorbed whatever the journey offered and reflected it as peace.

I had returned to places I already knew—Amanda’s house in the English countryside, the quiet cafés of Paris, the sun-soaked fields outside Avignon—but this time, I saw them through Berkeley’s eyes. Amanda, a dear old friend and a writer for House & Garden, had known me long before I met Berkeley. Introducing the two of them felt like presenting my wife to an extended family.

Berkeley’s eyes had changed since that first trip. The sharp, dreamy gaze behind her Leica had matured into something more profound: presence. Stillness. A seeing that required no lens.

Back then, we were learning how to travel together.
Now, we were moving in rhythm.

Paris: Light Without Effort

Paris should’ve felt like a challenge. Traveling with an 18-month-old in the middle of July heat, staying in a modest apartment in the 14th arrondissement, just south of the Seine, within walking distance of the Eiffel Tower. The bakeries, the butcher, and the smell of ripe fruit in the market stalls were all part of a neighborhood built for daily life, not sightseeing. And that was perfect.

Our apartment sat above a quiet street. From the window, I could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower peeking through rooftops like a casual reminder of where we were. We weren’t rushing to monuments—we were living beside them.

Berkeley moved through that apartment with quiet command, tending to our son, brushing her hair by the open window, and boiling water for tea. Her energy was soft and sure. She had come into her own. There was no anxiety, no pressure to do everything at once, just presence.

We explored the Louvre, took pictures of Madison fast asleep on the floor, and walked the shaded avenues hand in hand, with Madison wobbling between us. The Eiffel Tower wasn’t a destination—it was a backdrop. We passed it on the way to the park or admired it while sipping coffee at a café, where the waiter smiled at our son like he was the city's star.

One evening, we met up with Sundarii and Margarette for dinner—the kind that starts with light conversation and ends in something more reflective, more tender. I watched Berkeley laugh with them, entirely at ease. I remembered the early years—when unfamiliar cities made her tense, when new languages put her on edge. But here she was, holding her own in a swirl of French, English, and memory.

That night, as we walked home with Madison asleep against her shoulder, I looked up at the lit tower and thought:

This is what peace looks like.
Not silence. Not perfection. Just alignment.

Avignon: Edge of the Moment

We traveled next to Avignon, a place already tangled with memory. Years earlier, we’d arrived in the middle of its famed festival—actors in the streets, music in the alleys, the stone skeleton of the old papal palace watching in silence. That time, we never made it to the wedding we had come for. This time, we came for something quieter. More intimate.

We were visiting Jose, another old friend from my New York days, like Amanda. She had once been an au pair, and now she lived with her husband in an old, rambling farmhouse just outside the city. She, too, was expecting a baby.

The house was like something from a painting—weathered shutters, wild lavender, the distant hum of cicadas—where you half-expect a goat to wander through the kitchen.

One afternoon, I found myself alone in the attic with Madison. Sunlight streamed through a dusty window, catching particles in the air like golden confetti. He was toddling about, energized by the creak and clatter of old wooden floorboards. I lay on my back, stretched out in that lazy, grateful way that only comes midway through a long journey.

Then everything changed.

There was a hole in the attic floor—an old cut-out with a makeshift set of stairs leading down to the ground level. Madison spotted it. His little legs carried him toward it with sudden purpose. I was too far away. One more step and he would’ve fallen an entire story.

I did the only thing I could.
With everything inside me, I screamed:

“MADISON, STOP!”

And he did.

He stopped. Right at the edge.

I don’t know what force made him freeze. Maybe the sharpness in my voice. Maybe instinct. Maybe grace. But he paused at that brink, looked back at me with wide, wondering eyes, and sat down—just like that.

I was shaking. I scooped him up, held him so tightly he squirmed, confused by my trembling.

That moment—raw, terrifying, miraculous—burned itself into me.
Not because of what almost happened.
But because of what didn’t.

In that old farmhouse, surrounded by peace, I was reminded how quickly everything can change—how the line between joy and loss is often just one word, one second, one step.

Lyon: The Final Flight

We ended the trip in Lyon. Almost didn’t.

The flight home loomed, and like all endings, it snuck up on us faster than expected. We were running late. Not in that casual, “we’ll be fine” way, but in that heart-pounding, minutes-melting kind of late that makes you wonder if you’ll be stuck in a foreign city with a toddler, two carry-ons, and no plan.

I drove. Fast but focused.

Berkeley—calm and composed—was my co-pilot in every sense. No panic. Just clarity. She fed Madison snacks, called ahead to the airline, and encouraged me like a teammate in the final stretch of a relay. We weren’t arguing. We weren’t unraveling. We were aligned.

We parked the car and ran—stroller clattering, bags bouncing, our son giggling like it was a game. We were the last people to board. The doors closed behind us like punctuation.

We exhaled.

That flight wasn’t just about making it home. It was about making it together.
Under pressure. In motion. With trust.

In that rush, I realized something quietly monumental:
This wasn’t just a good trip.
This was a good marriage.

Epilogue: Second Sight

Looking back, I see the first trip as a kind of rehearsal—a journey through emotion and misalignment, trial and tenderness. We were learning each other's tempo. I didn’t know how to read her silences or recognize when she needed stillness instead of movement. I thought photography would be our shared language, but I hadn’t yet learned to see through her eyes.

The second trip? That was the real dance.

It’s not that we didn’t have stress.
It’s that stress didn’t have us.

We had become fluent in each other’s silences. We knew when to let go, hold fast, breathe, and keep moving. Europe hadn’t changed much. But we had. And that made all the difference.

I’ve traveled to many places. But this was the first time I saw them through her calm.
And because of that, I saw them differently.

The second time through wasn’t about discovery.
It was about return.
And becoming.

Life Lessons and Recommendations from “The Second Time Through”

1. Learn to travel at each other’s pace.

Lesson: Harmony isn’t about moving in perfect sync—it’s about learning how to adjust without resentment. If one partner needs rest and the other craves motion, honor both. That’s love in motion.

Recommendation: Discuss your travel styles before you leave home. One person may want to wander museums; the other wants to nap. Both can be valid, and both can be sacred.

2. Presence is more powerful than planning.

Lesson: You don’t need to “do it all.” You need to be there, for the moment, for each other, for the little things.

Recommendation: Let the Eiffel Tower be a backdrop, not a bucket-list checkbox. Focus less on photos and more on what the moment feels like.

3. You don’t grow out of tension—you grow through it.

Lesson: That early misalignment in the honeymoon wasn’t failure—it was the foundation. Learning to move together takes time. That’s how I built rhythm and trust.

Recommendation: Don’t panic when things feel off early in a relationship or a trip. Give each other space to adapt. Growth is often uncomfortable before it becomes graceful.

4. There’s no such thing as “a small moment” regarding parenting.

Lesson: A second’s instinct can shape a lifetime. The attic moment with Madison was terrifying and sacred, showing me how fragile and precious everything is.

Recommendation: Stay awake to the power of now. Kids don’t need perfection—they need your presence, protection, and love in real time.

5. Partnership is not about perfection. It’s about alignment.

Lesson: We weren’t the same travelers, but the same team years later. The flight in Lyon revealed that my marriage wasn’t stress-free, but resilient.

Recommendation: In marriage, work toward alignment, not agreement. You won’t always see eye-to-eye, but if you row in the same direction, you’ll go far.

6. Return is just as sacred as discovery.

Lesson: The first time was new. The second time was proper. Rediscovering familiar places through Berkeley’s calm showed that depth comes from presence, not novelty.

Recommendation: Don’t chase the next new place just for the thrill. Revisit meaningful places to see how you have changed. The view is different when your heart is.

7. Be willing to see your partner with new eyes.

Lesson: Berkeley and I evolved. Part of loving someone is learning to re-meet them as they grow.

Recommendation: Make space in your relationship for reinvention. Let your partner surprise you, and let them grow beyond your earliest expectations.