Missed Cues, or That Uneasy Feeling

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Still in quarantine. Tomorrow we will have the Saturday menu for the 3rd time. Sunday we’ll venture out into the streets of Bangkok, and find something to eat that doesn’t taste like Marriott. Can’t wait!

Missed cues, or that uneasy feeling that begins on the back of your neck

Years ago, as an experiment, I downloaded an app to my phone that was designed to send me an alert if I strayed into an area that was considered ‘dangerous.’ I thought it might be useful for traveling, to help me know where the ‘bad’ neighborhoods are. The app based its alerts on arrest data, if I recall correctly.

It basically pinged me every time I left our apartment, so I deleted it after just a few days. In my city, I knew instinctively which streets felt safe or unsafe. I didn’t need an app to tell me where it might be unwise to go for a solo walk after dark. That’s because, in my own country, I understand the cues—the unspoken language. I may not always be correct, but generally, I can tell if I accidentally wander into a neighborhood where I’m not welcome.

That’s not always true in other countries; as a matter of fact, it’s rarely true. We generally have no way of knowing where the ‘no-go’ zones start and end. As a result, we mostly don’t even try to figure it out.

Occasionally, we get lucky, and the local safety cues are obvious: every time we went into a South Korean coffee shop, we saw some young woman leave her purse-cell phone-laptop on a table, and wander off to the bathroom or another table. Once we saw a group of shoppers leave their Chanel purchases on their table—outside, on a sidewalk in the middle of Seoul—and go down the street to take selfies. Street crime just isn’t a thing there. I slung my purse over the back of my chair without a second thought; I slipped easily into the habit of dropping it into a shopping cart at the grocery store, and not worrying about a thing.

But cues aren’t always so obvious, or so simple to interpret. The emphasis on safety and security (and by extension, danger) in Cape Town, South Africa, was more than a little off-putting, but it never seemed justified, at least based on our month in the city. We stayed in a somewhat-but-not-entirely gentrified neighborhood in the city center, and the security rigamarole in our airbnb was kind of epic. We were instructed never to open the ground floor windows. On the second floor, we could open the windows when we were home, but instead of using a screen door, we were meant to close and lock a security gate made of bars. The keys (each gate had a different one) were to be stored at all times in a secret box, hidden in a cabinet on the other side of the room. On the desk was a screen dedicated to the multiple security cameras that monitored all sides of the apartment, at all times. We were required to keep the security alarm on all the time, even when we were just puttering around in the apartment during the day.

As a result of all this security, we were a little paranoid, and of course, we accidentally set off the alarm twice. Another time, it went off by itself in the middle of the night, scaring the living daylights out of us (and Lane, who was visiting). If you have that kind of security in South Africa, you necessarily have to also have a safe word, so that the (armed) security guard doesn’t shoot you. There was one moment, which in hindsight was funny but at the time was just terrifying, when Lee wrenched open the front door, screaming “Kestrel, kestrel,” over and over.

But we never actually witnessed even a hint of danger, anywhere. The worst thing that happened to us in South Africa, honestly, was a surfeit of Christmas cake.

Buenos Aires was the other city where we felt like the safety warnings were excessive. Twice, standing on the street debating the little blue dot on the map, we were warned to put our phones away and be more careful. Once in a restaurant I was lectured about how to protect my purse. We nodded and smiled and promised to be more careful.

Until we witnessed a snatching ourselves, that is. We were waiting to cross the street, chatting with friends who were visiting. (Remember those days, hanging out chatting with visiting friends was just a casual thing we did, without a second thought? I miss those days. *waves to Brooke & Andy*) In a split second, so quickly it was difficult to compute, a young man jumped off a motorcycle and sprinted past us, grabbing a cellphone out of the hands of the man standing next to Lee. It happened SO FAST. We all kind of stood there, stunned. The man was unhurt, but by the time we all realized his phone had been stolen, it was long gone, on the back of that zipping motorcycle.

Buenos Aires. It has a reputation for crime. It didn’t feel scary, though. Standing on that corner, waiting for the light to change, surrounded by tourists and locals, none of my internal alarm bells were triggered, until the moment had passed. There were no cues that I could read, other than friendly warnings from strangers, which seemed—like the security systems in Cape Town—a little excessive.

And then there was London. I can’t count how many times I’ve been to London in my life. I spent about half my childhood in the UK, and we went to London on the regular, to shop and to sightsee. I spent half of a summer abroad program in Kensington when I was in college. And I’ve been back repeatedly as an adult, many times—I’ll never, ever say no to a sojourn in London. One of my all-time favorite quotes, which Lee gets sick of hearing, is Samuel Johnson, telling his friend and biographer, James Boswell, that “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”

You’d think we’d know how to read the cues. We even speak the language, for Pete’s sake!

Lee walked out of our hotel one morning, put on his headphones, turned right at the corner, and pulled out his phone, to turn on a podcast. A split second later, he was holding air. His phone was gone. To hear him tell the story, it was as graceful and smooth as a ballet. A motorcycle pulled up next to him and the phone was plucked from his hand—they never even made physical contact. And then it was gone.

Later that day, getting coffee from the incredibly hipster-cool takeaway window on our block, we told the barista about it (I had been chatting with him every day). He nodded wisely. “Yeah. That block. This block is fine now, but that block is still a bit unsavory.”

We had no idea. There were no cues, at least not that we could see. The entire time we were in the city, our block—on Bermondsey Street—was jammed (no exaggeration) with upscale restaurants and cafes and wine bars and bakeries. People thronged the street at all hours, every day (even in Covid time). It was truly the only busy street we saw in our three weeks in the city. The weather was gorgeous, and it felt like we had stumbled into one big block party, where the beautiful young things were enjoying one last gasp of summer.

Where was the line? Where did the street go from hipster haven to snatch-and-grab zone? And how in the world would a stranger/tourist/visitor figure that out?

Our default mode is trust; thus far (knock on wood) it has served us well. Lee’s phone was insured; he had a new one up and running the next day. Perhaps we’re oblivious, but I prefer to think of it as trust, and I wouldn’t trade it. That trust—the willingness to wander, to talk to strangers, to try new things and wade into new experiences—is what makes this peripatetic life so worthwhile.

Take care,


P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to 
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Back in Hotel Q

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Bangkok, Thailand, where our quarantine room contains a gigantic television with eight news networks—both a blessing and a curse.

Back at the Hotel Q

Yes, we’re back in quarantine—this time in Bangkok. We haven’t seen the eldest of our offspring in two years (Two years! This mama is dying a little inside.), so here we are. We’ll spend fifteen nights at a Courtyard by Marriott, specially designated an ‘Alternative State Quarantine’ location by the government.

We had to get a Covid test before our flight, then we were tested again when we arrived at the hotel. Both of those were negative. We’ll be tested twice more before our release; if either of those comes back positive, we’ll be transferred to the hospital for a mandatory ten-day stay, symptoms or no symptoms. Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen. Also, pro tip: if you’re going to get tested a bunch of times in a couple of weeks, maybe ask the nurse to alternate nostrils. My sinuses are beginning to feel a little unbalanced (like the rest of me).

We have a very nice room—much nicer than the dorm room we had for our April quarantine at the Korean Youth Facility. Three times a day, meals are left outside our door for us to collect. We get to pre-order (online, of course) from a list of three or four set menus. It all feels quite luxurious, relatively speaking. I haven’t been served a single beef salad for my (vegetarian) breakfast. And there have been no tentacles in my (vegetarian) lunch.

In our last quarantine, I did yoga every day, but Lee did not. When we were released, his legs were a bit wobbly for a couple of days (did I laugh at him? Probably. I’m not very nice.). So this time he’s doing a lot of intermittent exercising throughout the day as well—we brought some resistance bands with us, and the hotel has provided yoga mats. Every now and again, he jumps up and does a bunch of squats or lunges. Of course, I did a very intense Vinyasa flow yesterday (our second day) and hurt my back, so he’s the one laughing now.

Our other big activity yesterday was scrubbing our sneakers. It was very exciting! First we used Clorox wipes (taking turns sitting in the shower to do this) to scrub off any nastiness, then we used a stiff toothbrush and soapy water to really get into the treads. The bottoms of our sneakers are very, very clean now.

So in case you were thinking your life was dull—it could be worse! You could be detailing the bottoms of your sneakers!

[Note: there was a reason. We’d both like to be able to do some exercising that requires shoes, and in this part of the world, outdoor shoes in an indoor space are a big no-no. Plus there’s no housekeeping, obviously, because #quarantine, so we don’t want to get the floor dirty. Of course, now my back hurts . . . Silly me.]

The only problem with all this ease and comfort in quarantine is that I got overly ambitious this morning. We can communicate via Line with the front desk (Line is the most popular messaging app in Thailand), and this being Thailand, the responses are very, very hospitable and kind. But then there’s the translation issue . . .

I was about to place my meal order for tomorrow, and was unenthusiastic about the vegetarian options, when I saw a button I hadn’t previously paid attention to: click here for kid’s menu. So I clicked. And I immediately wanted waffles for breakfast and spaghetti for lunch. I guess I’m really a six-year-old in adult clothing.

Here’s what I messaged to the front desk: “I have an odd question. Do you know if the portion sizes of the kid’s menu are much smaller than the adult menu?”

(Because, while I would love some waffles, I don’t want to inadvertently get the tiny little meals that are usually served to children. I do have an actual adult-sized appetite.)

Too many words. When will I ever learn?

Her response? “No worry I can tell chef to make it smaller for you.”

So if you need me, I’ll just be over here at Hotel Q, kicking myself for flying too close to the sun. And probably not gaining quarantine weight.

From my writer’s notebook:

I read an article the other day on Atlas Obscura (if you don’t know the website, check it out) about glassware used by the Scottish Jacobites in the 18th century. Symbols etched on the glass—a rose, an oak leaf, a star, and a thorny stem—indicated the household’s loyalty to the exiled James II, living in France, and his son and grandson. Equally sneaky was the toast often made: a dedicated Jacobite would pass the glass over a finger bowl, indicating loyalty to the ‘king over the water.’

The Jacobite uprising (which ended at the Battle of Culloden in 1746) has inspired a wealth of art and writing, as well as the cultural identity that connects the Scottish diaspora all over the world, but the mystique never fades. Symbols, hidden in plain sight. Coded social cues. Lost causes. This is the stuff that draws me into a book.

What draws YOU in?

Take care,


P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to 
https://bookwoman.com/ to subscribe.

Happy New Year, and I Mean It

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates. I’m eating ALL the hummus. It’s a problem.

Happy New Year, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart

The day I turned thirty-one, I woke up to a telephone call from my father, telling me that my grandmother had died. A week later, my husband had a heart attack, and had to have a quintuple bypass. In that brief afternoon between the catheterization and the open-heart surgery, the doctor told me to be sure Lee’s affairs were in order, just in case. We had two small children; the youngest was still breastfeeding. I was completely overwhelmed. 

Two months later, after Lee was home and mostly recovered, we discovered that our eldest had a hernia that needed to be repaired.

[Pop quiz: which is worse—when your soulmate has legitimately life-threatening major surgery, or the baby who made you a mama has somewhat less major surgery? Answer: it’s a trick question. They’re both worse. You will survive them both, but you will never again be the person you were before.]

The rest of that year was a blur of grief and fear and confusion. I hadn’t signed up for any of those really hard things. There were days (many days) when I just wanted our old life back—the life where I was young and naive and didn’t have to worry about my precious people actually dying. I was angry and sad and overprotective and numb. I had all the feelings. Except when they were too much, and I turned them off completely.

About six months after Toby’s hernia surgery, our youngest had to have some (truly minor) dental surgery. I was kind of done with medical stuff at that point, and I knew it. I asked my dad to come sit with us, just so we’d have an extra adult on deck. At some point, when Lee was taking a turn calming our screaming, bleeding toddler, I commented that being thirty-one had totally sucked, and I was pretty ready to be thirty-two.

My dad gave me a stern look, and said, “Don’t wish your life away.”

Lots of writers have referred to 2020 as a global annus horribilis. They may be right, but the year I was thirty-one was mine. It was a year of growing up, of learning hard lessons, and learning them in a hurry. In a nutshell, it was the year I learned what mattered—life now. I’m only going to get one opportunity, and I don’t want to miss it. This became the governing principle of our little family: life is short, and you only get one chance.

2020 has reminded me of a lot of those lessons. I have struggled a bit, trying to balance the necessary Covid shutdowns with my habit, cultivated in that awful year when I was thirty-one, of trying to get the most out of every day. We only get one life, right? And you want me to spend it sheltering from a virus, isolated from my friends and family? I am distracted and anxious and oh-so-ready for the vaccine, and the adventures that add sparkle to my days.

And then I think of my dad’s words—don’t wish your life away—and I remember. This is my one shot. My one good life. It may be our Covid year—I may be spending it isolated from most of the humans I love—but it’s still my one and only opportunity to live this year. I’ll never get it back, so I might as well make it count. Do I want to spend it fretting and being miserable, just marking time? Or do I want to look back and know that I got as much meaning and pleasure as I could from my fifty-fourth year?

I know 2020 was weird and scary and awful, and for way too many people, it was shot through with grief and loss. But if you’re still kicking—if you’re reading this—make 2021 count. Figure out ways to appreciate it, whatever it looks like in your corner of the world. We only get to do it once.

Be well, my friends. Here’s wishing us all a happy, healthy 2021.

Take care,


P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to 
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Adventures in Laundry

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates. We’re going to eat some hummus, watch some New Year’s fireworks, buy some chocolate, and do some laundry, before we go into quarantine in Thailand.

Adventures in Laundry

Merry Christmas, to those of you who are celebrating today. I realize this holiday season probably looks a little different than usual, and if that’s making you sad, I’m sorry.

The pandemic has caused me and Lee quite a bit of stress this year, in multiple ways, but I have to be honest—if there’s one thing our nomadic lifestyle has prepared us for, it’s a holiday season in the time of Covid. Long distance season’s greetings? Been there, done that.

When it’s safe to gather in person again, in however many months that proves to be, getting together with your loved ones will be all the sweeter without the expectations and pressures that color this time of year for so many of us. I promise.

Of course, Lee and I may have a uniquely skewed perspective on traditional celebrations. We spent our wedding night doing multiple loads of laundry, because we’d been so busy the week before, and we had a very early flight the next day. In keeping with the tradition of practicality that we had thus begun, we spent our first anniversary cleaning out the attic.

All these years later, here we are, and laundry is still one of the governing factors of our lives. We often get questions about what elements of nomading are most difficult, and it’s hard to express just how much the necessity of getting-the-laundry-done governs our days. When you don’t own a lot of clothes, you find they need washing frequently. We often choose our accommodation based on availability of a washing machine, or proximity to a laundry service. I recently skimmed back through my Facebook and Twitter posts from the beginning of our travels, and realized just how much I have talked about laundry in the past few years.

In a fit of randomness (you’re welcome to call it laziness—I acknowledge this trait in myself), I decided to collect all those old social media posts here. So for those of you who are mourning your normal Christmas traditions today, I offer this biographical (but not entirely chronological) series, with some recent updates thrown in for good measure.

Adventures in Laundry:

Goal for the day: figure out how to get laundry done. This will likely be a humorous adventure.

A nice woman in a massage parlor now has all my dirty clothes. Based on the hand-signs, I’d guess my underwear are going to be well-ironed.

Trying to understand settings on German washing machine. One option is ‘Fling.’ This makes me laugh a lot.

The washer died today. All of our (wet) clothes are trapped inside. Tomorrow I will have to wear a skirt. And maybe go buy a crowbar.

Hanging out at the laundromat. ‘Cuz that’s what you do when your clothes get sprung from washer prison after 48 hours.

Got up early to accept delivery of new washer, only to find AC not working. And this is why we sold our house.

Fact: when you’re getting 3rd language certification for a PhD, you don’t necessarily learn the Spanish words for washing machine installation.

For today’s installment of Adventures in Laundry, we’re visiting a grimy, damp rooftop in Hong Kong. Will Lee’s pants dry in the night air? Will Lisa surrender her beloved pink t-shirts to the dingy grey smog that coats the city? Or will she drag the giant laundry rack through the stairwell, searching in vain for a clean, dry place to hang her unmentionables?

In the latest installment of Adventures in Laundry: Not sure exactly how they washed our clothes in Cambodia (we saw one guy washing clothes with his feet, but I trust it wasn’t our stuff), but 3 pairs of my underwear are now full of holes. So bizarre. I must now attempt to purchase unmentionables in the land of the petite. This could get awkward . . .

More Adventures in Laundry: today I washed 2 loads of clothes in fabric softener. (Related: fabric softener gives me a face rash.) Awesomesauce.

Adventures in Laundry, Egyptian-style: this morning I went to do a load in the shared machine where we’re staying. I had to wait my turn—a four-year-old was doing a load. When it was my turn, he insisted on helping me with the soap and the knob. We’re buds. So if you think your kids are too young to do laundry, I suspect you’re underestimating them.

Adventures in Sri Lankan laundry: I discovered, when I got dressed this morning, that I have somehow lost a pair of shorts. Given that I only own 4 outfits, this is a bit of a problem. Also, perplexing. How does one lose clothing? Related: I guess I’m finally going to have to buy a pair of elephant pants.

Lee’s all-time favorite Adventure in Laundry was the time one of his socks turned up missing in Phnom Penh, a couple of hours before our flight. We raced back to the shop, with his one lonely sock in his pocket. When we walked in the door and he held up the sample, the woman at the front counter made a beeline to one specific pile of clothes in this tiny shop jammed full of piles, lifted it up, and underneath was his sock. He still considers it something of a miracle.

You know you’re having an Adventure in Laundry when the hotel charges more for the laundry than you paid for your room. Welcome to the Dead Sea.

Adventures in Laundry, India-style: we asked the proprietor of our guest house if we could get some laundry done. When she brought us our stack of clean clothes, she mentioned that they had a machine, but she’d asked the maid to wash it all by hand. “It’s so much nicer that way, don’t you think?”

In Jordan, a somewhat conservative Muslim country, our Adventure in Laundry involved looking out of our hotel room window & seeing my underwear hanging on the street in front of the laundry shop. For some reason, Lee thought that was hilarious. I did not agree.

During the protests in Chile last year, we had to evacuate from our hotel when the building next door was burned to the ground. I ran around in circles, squawking about our passports. When we got out to the (tear-gas-soaked) street and stopped to assess, I realized that Lee had grabbed his computer, our passports, and his backpack, stuffed full of dirty laundry. Because #priorities.

When we decided to go to South Korea back in April, knowing we’d have to go into mandatory quarantine, Lee very wisely bought a pair of pajamas. He wore them every day for those two weeks, then left them behind and walked out in a fresh, clean outfit. I sat around our dorm room wearing my normal clothes—all of them, repeatedly—so when we were released, the first thing I had to do was . . . laundry.

Lee’s least favorite Adventure in Laundry was on Jeju Island last summer, in South Korea. He took a load out of the machine, and as he was carrying the pile of wet clothes across the room to the drying rack, he felt a wicked sting on his hand. He dropped the whole pile on the rack, and wet clothes fell everywhere—but he saw a giant centipede on one of his shirts. A cluster%^& of confusion ensued, with hollering and swatting and the slap of wet clothes being thrown around. At one point, he was yelling at me to get the centipede off the shirt, and apparently thought I should use my hands to do this. Luckily, his bitten/stung/swollen finger—and our marriage—survived.

We’ve been on Bonaire for two and a half months now, and because our apartment has a washer, and because he can, Lee has done a load of laundry Every. Single. Day.

Which is good, because the three shirts I mail-ordered on October 6 never arrived. So I’ve spent our time here rotating between the three sleeveless shirts I already own, and bathing suits. It could be worse.

Happy Holidays, y’all!

Take care,


P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to 
https://bookwoman.com/ to subscribe.

Beneath the Skin

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Bonaire, gathering ourselves to move on, with a tinge of sadness.

Beneath the skin

Last weekend, Lee and I headed out in the car to check out a new-to-us snorkel spot. When we got in the water, we followed our usual routine: he manages to get his fins on first, and makes a beeline for the drop-off at the edge of the reef. I trail along behind, struggling to catch up and trying to get his attention and tell him to slow down. 

On Sunday, though, when I started kicking out toward the reef, I saw this most beautiful turtle, hanging out next to a coral head in the sandy zone behind the reef. I stopped, and watched it for a minute, then spent another couple of minutes diving down to get a photo. I tried to wave Lee back, but he was long gone, swimming toward the deep water.

In the last two months, I have snorkeled in front of our apartment most days, just floating around in the shallow water by myself (being in shallow water enables me to see creatures up close), barely moving. I see the same fish every day. I watch their behavior, their habits. I’ve learned which are skittish, which are fearless, which get more active later in the day. Some are aggressive toward their neighbors; some ignore each other. Some ignore me. Some swim along with me, as if I’m providing cover. I laugh into my snorkel. It’s not a beautiful spot—it’s mostly just rocks and rubble and old engine blocks that are used as mooring buoys—but being there, seeing it so repeatedly, is sort of magical. It feels like I’m gaining a tiny bit of understanding of a world I don’t otherwise see.

This is pretty much how we go through the world—this push-pull is so much a part of our relationship now that we have a code word for it: scuba diving (which is a little ironic, since we haven’t actually done any scuba diving on this visit to Bonaire). Years ago, when we started diving with our children, we quickly realized that there was always a conflict: keep moving to cover more distance (the children), or slow down to look at the tiny things. You can’t see cleaner shrimp if you’re zooming by, but if you stay in one spot, you might miss the eagle ray over there. It’s hard to choose (unless you’re trying to keep track of two rambunctious kids at fifty feet below the surface, in which case you keep your eyes on them no matter what).

Traveling presents us with this same conflict, writ large: the faster we move, the more we see. The slower we move, the more we understand.

When we went to Bali, we stayed in a small, family-owned hotel in a village outside of Ubud. We spent a month there, in one of their eight rooms, slowly coming to feel as if we were part of the family. One day, late in our stay, the owner said he’d like to take us on a walking tour of the village, so that we could “see beneath the skin.”

We had been walking around this village for three weeks at that point (okay, Lee had been walking more than I had, because there were dogs everywhere—I insisted on taking a taxi into Ubud each day so that I could get some steps with fewer dogs barking at me). That walk with Gus was one of the more memorable of our lives. We sloshed through a wet rice paddy, and chatted with the man who tends an ancient shrine, mostly abandoned. We watched as he stepped carefully along the rickety wooden bridge over the rivers, carrying a load of tools and cleaning supplies. We visited the community shower, which Gus told us most people continue to use, even though they have plumbing at home, because it’s the social center of the village. He also warned us that everyone would be naked. He was correct. He took us into a family compound, to see how the rooms were arranged. He asked, before we entered, if I had my period, because if I did, I needed to stay out of the central shrine. It was, in my experience of the world, an intensely private question. But in his experience of the world, it was completely normal.

If we had spent only a few days in Bali, on an island-hopping tour of Indonesia, I don’t imagine we’d have memories so richly-textured and specific. We’ve done that—landed in a country, rented a car, and seen as much as possible in a week or two. My experience of those places is often a blur; I have to look back at my photos to bring the memories to life, and even then, I only remember the things I could’ve seen on the internet or in a guide book anyway.

Slow travel is not for everyone, I realize. Even I have trouble reconciling myself to it sometimes. FOMO is real. We are (probably) leaving Bonaire next week, and I’m fighting off a familiar feeling of regret—I didn’t do it all; I wasted an opportunity.

But if you can, try slow travel sometime, because there is value in both approaches. You can see a lot of sights on a five-countries-in-ten-days kind of trip—go, go, go—but you may see every bit as much if you stop and sit. It’ll just look different.

From my writer’s notebook:

The United Kingdom has a law called the Treasure Act. If someone finds a metal object that might be more than 300 years old, they are required to report it within two weeks. It will be appraised and valued, and the finder may qualify for a reward. Museums will have the opportunity to acquire the item.

I read about the law because two men were sentenced to jail recently for violating the law. Using metal detectors, they found a hoard of coins, jewelry, and other artifacts dating from the ninth and tenth centuries. Instead of reporting the items, they tried to sell them off, piecemeal. It’s thought the entire collection was worth about four million dollars, but we’ll never know for sure, because so many pieces went straight into private collections.

Take care,


P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to 
https://bookwoman.com/ to subscribe.

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