Can I Go?

(11 minute read)

So, here’s the thing. If you’re reading this, you’re probably expecting some polished, picture-perfect travel story. You know, the kind where everything goes according to plan, the sunsets are always Instagram-worthy, and every meal is a five-star experience. Well, that’s not this story. But, if you’re looking for a tale of chaotic adventures, spontaneous trips, and the magic of asking three simple words—“Can I go?”—then you’re in the right place.

I’m Jonas—musician, oddball, adventurer and now-travel advisor. And for as long as I can remember, the idea of settling down has never quite worked for me. Sure, I thought I should want a nice, stable life, but the truth is, I’m much more comfortable with a bit of movement and a lot of unpredictability. It’s like my soul has an internal GPS that only works when I’m constantly on the move, and I’ve just learned to go with it.

That’s where the magic of “Can I go?” comes in. Whether it’s hopping on a road trip with friends, finding a place to crash on a last-minute band tour, or jumping on a flight to a place I can’t even pronounce—these three words have shaped my life in ways I never expected. They’ve opened doors, made me friends, and led to experiences that continue to surprise me. And now, they’ve brought me here, sharing my silly story with you.

So, buckle up babe, because this is my short but thrilling blog post about how movement, exploration, and embracing the unknown aren’t just things I do—they’re who I am. And that’s something I want to share.

The Road

Growing up in Dallas, Texas, my first experiences traveling weren’t flying across the globe—they were road trips. Every year, my family would pack into the car for what seemed like an endless series of adventures. My parents were big on road trips. We’d go to Washington, D.C. to visit monuments and museums, or New Orleans for the riverboat cruises and jazz music. But my absolute favorite, and my mom’s, was the annual trip we made to Santa Fe, New Mexico. For those of you who haven’t been, let me just say, it’s a place where the streets seem to have been built with art in mind. Everything, and I mean every building, is made out of stucco, giving the town a very distinct, almost otherworldly vibe. It‘s got its own unique culture and there’s something magical about spending time in the art galleries and talking to the turquoise jewelry vendors. It’s also where I learned that the impossible can happen—like how the staircase at Loretto Chapel, a seemingly improbable feat of engineering for the time, was built by an angel (or, you know, an angelic carpenter, depending on who you ask).

But road trips weren’t just about visiting cool places. Oh no, my parents took things to the next level. When I was about ten, they bought a conversion van. A full-on conversion van complete with curtains, a pull-out bed, a CB radio, mini-TV, VCR, and even my N64. This van was more like a mobile home than a car, and we’d drive all over the country, making stops on the side of the road just to sleep under the stars (or, many times, under the glow of a Walmart sign). We even pranked truckers over the CB radio. The hours spent in that van, talking, laughing, and eating snacks, made me feel like there was no place I’d rather be. As I grew older, I realized that the road was in my blood. My dad, who, at the age of 17, hitchhiked from Oklahoma to San Francisco, was more of a wanderer than anyone I knew. He didn’t just live in one place—he lived everywhere.

It was after hearing his stories that I started asking, “Can I go?”—not only to my family and their sometimes boring road trips to nowhere to visit so-and-so, but to other random adventures that popped up along the way. I wanted in on anything that moved, even if it meant abandoning all plans to follow that one spark of possibility.

To put it simply, I inherited my father’s spirit. The spirit of adventure. The spirit of movement. And perhaps most importantly, the spirit of getting to know new people wherever you go. I saw how easily my dad made friends—whether he was at a truck stop in Kansas or a concert in Austin. And while I tried my hardest to not be like him in many ways (as most children do), I inevitably followed in his footsteps, collecting friendships everywhere I went.

Puddle Jump

As I entered my teens, my aunt, who worked as a flight attendant, opened up a new world for me: free airfare. I was 15 when I boarded my first international flight to Europe. It wasn’t anything super glamorous—just a quick visit to London and Paris—but it was enough to spark my imagination. What I didn’t know was that we’d be visiting London during the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, which, at the time, was completely lost on me and my clueless American family. But what happened next was one of those serendipitous moments that has stayed with me forever.

We happened to be in London on the day of one of the largest concerts in history, held in front of Buckingham Palace. We had no idea that over a million people would gather to see Paul McCartney, Elton John, Ozzy Osbourne, and other legends perform. We couldn’t have planned it better, and it became one of those experiences where the unexpected made everything so much more magical. Even though we missed some of the planned tourist attractions—thanks to the national holiday—my real memory is of that concert and the thousands of people who were there just to celebrate.

Next stop: Paris. We had an interesting time trying to find our hotel, and that’s when my minimal French education kicked in. Thanks to a middle school crash course in French, I managed to communicate with a local policeman (probably the only person in Paris who didn’t speak English) and get us directions. That trip solidified my love for international travel. It wasn’t just the sights or the food (I’ll never forget the gelato man teaching my mother how to correctly pronounce “vanille” in French); it was the feeling of being somewhere new, somewhere unknown.

And, of course, in typical Jonas fashion, I found myself asking, “Can I go?” when I realized I could hop on a plane and do this much more often. I took every opportunity to use the free airline pass my aunt gave me (did I mention that?) and bounce around the country with my friends and cousins. What if this became my life—traveling, exploring, and living for the unexpected?

The Struggle of Settling Down (or Not)

As I reached my late teens and early twenties, something happened to me: I grew bored. My family had visited Disney World so many times that we actually lost interest. You see, my oldest brother lived in Orlando and always knew somebody that worked there and could get us in for free. So the allure of the Magic Kingdom eventually faded, and we’d simply go through the motions—figuring out ways to bypass the lines, sneak onto rides, and occasionally end up at the bar (where, by the way, I learned that being underage doesn’t necessarily stop you from getting a drink). The real magic, as it turns out, wasn’t in the main attractions—it was in the moments outside the expected, the spontaneous antics.

By my mid-twenties, I was fully immersed in the music scene. I’d inherited my father’s love for travel and music, and so I hit the road with an array of different bands. But this wasn’t the glamorous life I’d imagined. Small-time bands don’t tour in luxury. We traveled in cramped vans literally sitting on our instruments and stayed in rundown motels, where the whole band often had to share one room. It wasn’t unusual for us to leave a show with no place to sleep, so we’d ask around, casually mentioning our predicament. And lo and behold, sometimes people would actually invite us into their homes (or college dorm rooms). This was when I realized that one of my talents—if you could call it that—was meeting new people. It became a game and part of the adventure.

Fast forward a few years, and I had some luck. I joined a band that actually had enough money for full-sized tour buses. No more roach motels! But looking back, the chaotic days spent in those packed vans and late-night conversations with strangers have stayed with me, and I remember them with a lot more fondness than my cozy tour bus bunk. 

If You Can Make It There…

At around age 30, I realized I needed a change. I was worn out from the constant noise and chaos of the musician’s life. So, I did what anyone would do when they need peace and quiet: I moved to New York City. Well, maybe not for peace and quiet, but definitely for a new adventure. I had no real plan—just the unshakable belief that I could make it work. The first few weeks were tough, but exciting. I interviewed for several jobs, but nothing seemed to stick.

Then, just as I was starting to wonder if I had made the right choice, an old acquaintance told me he was working at a small theater as a set carpenter. I was desperate for anything and asked, “Can I go?” It didn’t matter that I wasn’t getting paid (or that I had never done any carpentry). This, my friends, is how I accidentally fell into a new career. I started working for several theater companies in the city, building sets for plays and sometimes large-scale art installations. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a steady income, and it connected me to some amazing people. It didn’t take long before I landed some pretty incredible gigs—working with Broadway theaters, The Rolling Stones, Instagram, The MoMA, Disney, and even the United Nations. I became part of the creative pulse of the city without ever needing a full-time job. This was a huge moment for me: I realized that when you throw yourself into the deep end, you might just learn to swim.

A Quick Detour

Look, I have to be honest here: I skipped a few chapters. As much as I love telling stories about all my spontaneous adventures and “Can I go?” moments, life hasn’t been all road trips and impromptu tours. There was the sudden passing of my father, which hit me harder than I could have ever anticipated. There was also the collapse of my short-lived marriage, which I won’t dive into too deeply here—let’s just say it wasn’t the smoothest ride. Oh, and I should mention that little thing that happened in 2020, when the whole world seemed to fall apart in slow motion. But these are the parts of life that are harder to put into a blog post.

I’m not saying this to take away from the adventure—I’ll never stop asking “Can I go?” or chasing after new experiences. But the truth is, it’s the tough stuff that shapes us, too. It’s the stuff that makes you realize that sometimes the most unpredictable trips are the ones inside yourself. So yeah, some of that messy, real-life stuff had to be left out to keep things a little lighter here. But trust me, it’s part of the story too.

Why (Not) France?

In 2021, as the world started to open up again and going out didn’t feel like a potential life-or-death decision, my French-American friend, Paul and I started a weekly ritual—cocktail hour at our favorite spot in Oak Cliff. We grew even closer during those laid-back evenings, and it was there that he casually mentioned a family reunion in France. Well, naturally, my immediate response was, “Can I go?” A few months later, we found ourselves playing pétanque with his family, getting hopelessly lost on the island of Corsica, and tearing through the Alps in a rental car, laughing the whole way. Paul shares the full story in our first blog post, Becoming Tripologiste.

That trip marked a major turning point for both of us. We were officially BFFs, best friends forever. Cue the dramatic "Awwwwww!" And for me, it sparked a whole new identity: the idea of becoming a globe-trotting, “citizen of the world” was suddenly very real. I wasn’t just dipping my toes into international travel anymore—I was diving in. 

Then, in April 2023, something unexpected happened when Paul texted me: 'I’m thinking about moving to France.' My response? I think you can guess by now! And just like that, my life changed course. My never-ending curiosity and desire to move, paired with the chance to explore new cultures and ways of life on a regular basis? I couldn’t miss it. On top of that, we had been talking about starting a travel company. We realized we had a knack for planning seamless, unforgettable trips, and we were eager to share that with others.

By 2024, our idea became a reality. After some research and thoughtful discussions, I took the leap. The “Can I go?” moments kept happening, each one leading to bigger and more exciting adventures. And that, folks, is how I ended up in France—surrounded by new opportunities, new friendships, and, of course, the beautiful unpredictability of travel.

And Now…

So here I am—living my dream as a true citizen of the world. Or trying, at least. The journey is far from over, and I’m just getting started. Every trip I take, every new connection I make, adds more layers to the story. And the moral? It’s simple: never stop asking, “Can I go?” You never know where it might lead.