I used to travel the way most people do — as much as possible, as many places as would fit, home exhausted and unable to remember the middle of it.
Now I go to fewer places and stay longer. It’s the same principle as everything else here: fewer things, chosen well.
And often, alone.
Anguilla. Tulum. Bimini. Trips I took by myself, and the ones I remember most clearly.
Travelling alone changes what a place is for. There’s no negotiating the day, no performing enjoyment, nobody to narrate it to. You eat when you’re hungry and stop when you’ve seen enough, and in the gaps something else arrives — the thinking you don’t get to at home, because at home there’s always something else to do first.
It isn’t lonely, though people assume it is. It’s quiet. Those are different.
A place gives you nothing in two days.
You spend the first working out where to eat and the second leaving. The good part — the walk you take twice, the café where they recognize you, the sense of a place rather than a list of it — starts around day four.
Pack for the life, not the fantasy.
One palette so everything works with everything. A bag you can carry up stairs yourself. Shoes you’ve already broken in, because a blister costs you a day.
The rest is negotiable.
What you’ll find here.
Where to go and what’s worth the trip. What I packed and what I didn’t need. Where I ate. And the occasional argument for going alone.
Shop → The Travel Edit
— À bientôt
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