Welcome

Southeast Alaska’s bays and fjords are not places you rush through. They are the kind that demand a slower pace, the kind where you learn that distance is less important than depth. Snowmelt waterfalls streamed down cliff faces that rose straight from the sea, their tops lost in mist. In the still coves, with water  so clear you could see the starfish clinging to rocks twenty feet below, each arm splayed like a question. 

We saw marine iguanas—prehistoric things—swim through the surf in slow motion, tails undulating, spitting salt from their nostrils. The land iguanas were no less striking—hunkered beside prickly pear cacti, nibbling spines as if they were celery sticks. One mockingbird landed just inches from my hand, tilting its head with an intelligence that felt almost human. Another perched on a camera bag, unafraid, unconcerned. Here, the animals are curious about us, but we are the ones out of place.

 They call it the Volcanic Way, and it earns the name in every direction you look. The trail rolls up and over the flanks of eight volcanoes, each one a lesson in humility, each one reminding you that Iceland is not so much a country as it is a raw negotiation between fire and ice. 

 Nosara was the destination—barely a dot on the Pacific edge of the Nicoya Peninsula, a place where the jungle leans all the way to the surf and howler monkeys announce the sunrise like drunken town criers. Nosara is an expat community known for its surfing, yoga, and exo-tourism.  And its chill vibe was exactly what I was seeking...  

 The National Hotel where we had opted to stay, stood like a stone grandmother at the edge of Red Square. It watched generations come and go—czars, Soviets, tourists with Instagram dreams. My room was draped in velvet and paranoia. Every vase, every bouquet of flowers became a possible listening device. My travel companion, Brady, whispered his jokes into them like messages for the Kremlin. We laughed, too loudly. 

 The two-day hike to Machu Picchu doesn’t boast the romantic hardship of the full Inca Trail, but it holds its own kind of reverence. It is not a test of endurance so much as a slow surrender—of time, of comfort, of control. Every step down ancient stone paths felt placed by hands long vanished. The stones were smoothed by centuries of bare feet and ambition, sloping unevenly with age. You walk with your calves whispering complaints and your lungs asking forgiveness.  

 The air in Siem Reap hit me like a silk curtain soaked in woodsmoke and sweet decay. It wasn’t just heat — it was memory. Something older than the river, older than the monks, older than the temples. It clung to your clothes and your throat. A scent of sandalwood, smoke, oil, sweat, and time.  The first sight was morning mist and motion — lilac haze lifting slowly off the moat that guards the world’s largest religious monument. My  heart raced like I was trespassing into something sacred. 

We drifted quietly in our zodiac, when they emerged — one by one — from the shadows. First the silver legs of a  matriarch, her ears fanning gently as she scanned the bank. More followed.  I alternated pointing my camera and trying to watch the scene without the obstruction of the glass or technology.  I wanted to respect what was sacred. It felt like watching legacy in motion — the wisdom of elders, the protection of mothers, the delicate vulnerability of a future just learning how to walk. 

 Roads in Ireland hug the natural contours of the land in a way they don’t in the U.S. Every hill, depression, and curve is preserved connecting the road and your drive to the land. We drove with that particular rhythm of Irish roads—slow enough to avoid the sheep and sudden tractors, fast enough to make the next village before the tea shops closed. Signs for the Boyne Valley appeared, their brown tourist-route markers pointing toward a name that has held the pulse of 5,000 winters: Brú na Bóinn

 Life on the dhoni fell into a rhythm almost immediately. Mornings started with the soft hum of the engines and the sight of low islands slipping past. By midday we’d drop anchor over a patch of reef so vivid it looked unreal—purples, oranges, and yellows flashing between the blue. We’d snorkel until our fingers pruned, surfacing to trade sightings: a parrotfish the size of a loaf of bread, a shy octopus retreating into its hole, coral heads as intricate as cathedral ceilings. 

 At nearly 12,000 feet, Namche appears like a vision someone dreamt up in thin air.  Tin roofs gleam in the sun, prayer flags sparkle like jeweled necklaces strung across any available open spaces. It is a crossroads. A place where Sherpa tradition and Western ambition trade glances over hot tea. Where monks in crimson robes pass trekkers in moisture-wicking base layers.  Beneath it all Namche is something deeper.  It’s not just a market town. It’s a reckoning point. This is where you decide if 

 Kathmandu wakes early, not with the measured yawn of a city easing into the day, but with a surge—like water breaking past a dam.  Life presses in from every direction: a boy  threading between taxis with a tray of tea; a monk in maroon robes slipping into an alleyway that smells of cardamom and woodsmoke; the faint chime of temple bells cutting through the drone of traffic.  Everything moves, except the mountains—those impossible walls of stone and ice that stand at the city’s edge, watching. 

Bora Bora rose out of the Pacific like a painter's fever dream - the kind of improbable beauty that makes you wonder if your eyes are lying.  The lagoon was a palette of impossible blues, each shade bleeding into the next, so bright it seemed lit from beneath. Skyscrapers of black volcanic rock cut through the water's sheen, jagged reminders that this paradise had been born in eruptions of fire and violence. A place that could lull you into forgetting the rest of the world.