Camp does something for kids that we stop giving ourselves the minute we grow up.

They get a week with a limited agenda: get good at one thing, make a mess, come home a little different.

As a parent, I watch play and recess get stripped away, grade by grade. By middle school, everything starts to tilt toward performance, achievement, and optimization. So I keep telling my kids they’ll have to be intentional about building play back into their lives because it’s remarkably easy to become a proving adult and optimize your life flat.

I tell my coaching clients the same thing: Play is not the reward for the work. Recreation is re-creation.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped learning things simply because they interested us. We stopped spending a week being beginners, letting curiosity lead.

So if we all built a little more camp into our year, here are a few versions of Adult Summer Camp that have made my list.

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Portland may be America’s best city for spending an entire day following your curiosity. A bookstore that is also a gallery. A gallery also has a coffee shop. A coffee shop in a park built on an extinct volcano. Somewhere along the way, you’ll eat one of the best meals you’ve had all year and wonder why more cities don’t work like this.

What I love most about Portland is that so much of what makes it special still feels relatively unpretentious. The city has world-class restaurants, ambitious contemporary art spaces, and one of the country’s great bookstores, but it rarely feels interested in advertising any of it too loudly. Much of Portland’s charm lives in the spaces between destinations.

More than most cities, Portland rewards wandering. Pick a neighborhood, start walking, and see what happens. Alberta Arts District, Mississippi Avenue, and Division Street are all particularly good places to spend a day without much of a plan.

Ride the Tram. One of my favorite inexpensive activities is taking the aerial tram up to Oregon Health & Science University. On a clear day, you can see Mount Hood, Mount St. Helens, and much of the city spread out below. It’s also a reminder of how closely Portland’s urban life remains tied to the surrounding landscape.

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When I read Myleik’s post last week, my first thought was: That’s so her. There is always a book behind the book, always a stack waiting in the wings. I’m more of an article guy. But, while some people meticulously plan outfits for a trip or their books, I spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding what songs belong to the places I’m headed.

There are songs for airport trains and songs for getting slightly, and more than slightly lost. Songs for staring out hotel windows at midnight when you cannot sleep, for driving into unfamiliar neighborhoods, for rainy mornings in anonymous cafés, for walking too far because the music in your headphones makes you think something meaningful might be around the next corner.

Certain songs permanently attach themselves to places. Others somehow create the place before you even arrive.

Here are a few songs I keep returning to lately, and where I think they belong.

What song belongs in the backseat of a taxi at 1 am in a city you barely know?
Dance of Maria, Elias Rahbani — A song that feels glamorous, lonely, and slightly unreal.

What song sounds like a crowded train leaving the airport at night?
Pathaka Guddi - Drill Remix, Nooran Sisters, Syned Beats — The kind of song that makes arrival feel cinematic.

What song belongs to driving through a neighborhood you’ve only previously read about?

Vidigal, Banda Black Rio — Movement music. Curious music.

What song belongs while wandering through a city alone just after sunrise?

Dove, Cymande — A perfect walking song. Patient, observant, weightless.

What song belongs beside room service fries and one more glass of wine?

Soul Sista, Bilal — Warm, intimate, impossibly smooth.

What song belongs beside a frozen drink and very late checkout?
The Finest, The S.O.S Band — Vacation music in the absolute best sense.

What song belongs to that strange emotional openness hotel rooms create?Deeper, Ronald Isley (Bebe Kid’s Soundtrack) — Some songs sound like conversations people only have far from home.

What song should be played in a nearly empty hotel bar for a late-night cocktail?
Nightclubbing, Grace Jones — The lighting has shifted. Everyone suddenly looks mysterious.

What song belongs in headphones while walking through a museum alone?Walking In Space, Quincy Jones — Expansive, searching, slightly cosmic.

What song belongs on a rainy hotel balcony?
I Heard the Voice of Music Say, Sunbear — One of those songs that slows time down completely.

What song should play while staring out the airplane window, descending into somewhere unfamiliar?
Enkèn Yèlélèbesh, Girma Bèyènè · Akalé Wubé — The feeling of becoming temporarily untethered from your normal life.

What song should play once the city finally goes quiet?
Mystery of Love, Mr. Fingers — Music for empty streets, glowing signs, and thoughts that arrive too late to ignore.

What song belongs after midnight, when exhaustion turns into clarity?
Brown Rice, Don Cherry — Music that feels less listened to than wandered through.

What song belongs somewhere between devotion and drift?
My Sweet Lord (Demo), George Harrison — The demo version feels human in a way polished recordings rarely do.

What song should play when travel stops feeling like escape and starts feeling like self-recognition?
I DO, Leon Thomas — A song filled with warmth, surrender, and the quiet realization that you’ve brought yourself everywhere you’ve gone.

This is for the readers. While some people incessantly plan outfits for a trip, I spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding which books are coming with me.

Some books pair well with room service fries and a glass of wine, and others are meant for rainy balconies, airport delays, lonely dinners, or the strange emotional openness that happens in hotel rooms. I think the right book gives shape to a trip.

Here’s what I’m reading right now and the books I’d immediately recommend to a friend headed out of town.

What book is actually in my bag right now?
A Terrible Strength. I’m reading it ahead of my conversation with Kemi Doll at the Brave + Kind Bookshop on June 12.

Dr. Kemi has a way of explaining things that leaves you wondering why women were ever expected to navigate this without the information. This book is essential for Black women navigating OB care.

What book are you reading because your life requires it right now?
Learning Disabilities A to Z — Corinne Smith and Lisa Strick
Not available on Kindle and out of print, so I have to lug it around. Hugely helpful.

What book belongs beside room service fries and a glass of wine?
The Wedding People — Alison Espach
A “just one more chapter” book.

What book makes you stare out the airplane window and rethink your life?
Open Monogamy — Tammy Nelson

What book belongs on a luxury hotel nightstand?
All Fours — Miranda July
The kind of book that will have you staring into space afterward.

What book reads like an exit ramp from your current life?
The Way of Integrity — Martha Beck
When you’re answering Slack messages from a hotel pool and know you can’t do this for another five years.

What book would you leave in a hotel room for the next guest?
Tiny Beautiful Things — Cheryl Strayed

What book belongs on a rainy hotel balcony?
The Rainbow Comes and Goes — Anderson Cooper & Gloria Vanderbilt

What book belongs beside a late-night cocktail at the hotel bar?
Office Hours + Sabbatical — Katrina Jackson
For those who want smut and believable adults with real chemistry.

What book belongs beside a frozen drink and late checkout?
Rafe — Rebekah Weatherspoon

What book pairs best with solo dining?
Strangers: A Memoir of Marriage — Belle Burden

What book belongs on a slow Sunday morning while traveling?
The Comfort Book — Matt Haig

What book explains how to do the thing you already know you need to do?
The Balancing Act — Nedra Glover Tawwab

What book belongs in a tiny independent bookstore abroad?
Good Morning, Monster — Catherine Gildiner

What book belongs in bed at midnight in a hotel room?
Sociopath: A Memoir — Patric Gagne
I couldn’t stop thinking about this book after I finished it.

What book feels like a wise conversation about mortality?
A Beginner’s Guide to the End — BJ Miller & Shoshana Berger

What book belongs in your carry-on?
Excellent Advice for Living — Kevin Kelly
Nothing too deep. Just page after page of smart, practical advice that is easy to remember.

What book pairs best with wandering through a city alone?
The Vanishing Half — Brit Bennett

What book belongs beside herbal tea, a robe, and a silent retreat itinerary?
All the Way to the River — Elizabeth Gilbert

— Myleik

Disclaimer: Book links are affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you purchase through them. I only share books I genuinely enjoyed, found useful, or would recommend to a friend.

There is a particular kind of summer beer that has almost nothing to do with beer itself.

Not rare beer. Not strong beer. Not the beer somebody traveled across town to try. I mean the kind ordered late in the afternoon in a city where you do not live, when the light is still fully outside, and you realize, for the first time all day, that nobody currently needs anything from you.

“Just one,” you say.

Summer seems to create small pockets like this. Tiny escapes hidden inside ordinary days. A beer after dropping your kids somewhere. A beer after installing artwork all afternoon beneath impossible lighting. A beer before driving home. A beer while waiting for the heat to leave the sidewalks. Increasingly, I think what I am actually searching for in these moments is not really a great beer, but orientation. A place to ground yourself for an hour. A mid-day rest between obligations, decisions, hotels, conversations, and miles.

This past weekend, I drove from Atlanta directly to the Mississippi Museum of Art in Jackson. I spent the afternoon walking through galleries, taking notes, talking, working, writing. Somewhere along the way, afternoon quietly became early evening. When I finally stepped back outside, I realized I had made absolutely no plans beyond getting there. I did not know where I was eating. I did not know where I was staying.

In many ways, I needed a place before the place.

And so, suddenly, I found myself at Fertile Ground Beer Co., drinking a cold local pilsner among strangers while using the Wi-Fi to figure out what came next.

Nothing about the moment was particularly dramatic. Nobody would mistake it for the reason to visit Jackson, but it became the emotional center of the day anyway. The relief of sitting still. The condensation collecting beneath the glass. The low conversation around me. The feeling of briefly belonging nowhere specific.

The best version of this almost always happens alone.

Not lonely. Just briefly anonymous.

Maybe you are sitting outside a neighborhood bar in a city you barely know. Maybe there is something vaguely interesting silently playing on a television inside. Maybe the bartender asks what brought you to town, and you give the shortened version because explaining your life to strangers can feel exhausting after a long day. You are not trying to become part of the city. You are simply trying to exist inside it for one quiet hour.

The beer itself should probably be simple. Summer is not the season for overthinking.

A crisp pilsner is ideal. A Mexican lager if it is brutally hot outside. A Kölsch in a narrow glass. Maybe a cheap regional beer you cannot get back home. The best summer beers are cold enough to fog the glass immediately and uncomplicated enough that you stop thinking about them after the first sip.

What matters more is atmosphere.

A ceiling fan struggling against the heat. Condensation rings forming beneath your glass. Someone laughing too loudly at another table. The sound of traffic softening as evening arrives. An overnight bag tucked beneath your chair. The strange pleasure of having absolutely nowhere to be for forty-five minutes.

I think that is why these moments stay with me more than they probably should. They resist optimization. They cannot really be photographed correctly. They do not make for particularly exciting travel recommendations. Nobody plans an entire trip around having one cold beer alone before sunset.

But years later, those are often the moments I remember most clearly.

Not the airport. Not the hotel. Not even always the museum.

Just the feeling of walking into an unfamiliar place, exhausted from the heat and the day, ordering one cold beer, and slowly becoming a person again.

Beers in My Fridge This Summer

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Having children meant updating all of my settings for how I do things, even going to the grocery store. So when it came to family travel, I had to build a new blueprint. One of the biggest lessons? Anchor everything to the school calendar. Figure out when the kids are free, then build from there.

From there, we figure out how long the break is, how long we want to be gone, and what the budget can realistically hold. If both parents can go, great. If not, the trip still happens. We’ve learned travel can’t wait for perfect conditions.

Letting the Flights Decide

If it’s a full family trip and anything is possible, I start with Going.com and fare alerts on Google Flights. I plug in our travel window and let the deals tell me where to go. That’s honestly how we end up in places we never would’ve picked ourselves.

One thing I’ve learned: book flights before hotels. Flights change everything. Once those are locked in, the rest becomes easier to figure out.

And when we don’t feel like reinventing the wheel, we usually end up somewhere in Florida. Rosemary Beach, Destin, Miami, Naples, Orlando — it just works. Short flights, tons of hotel options, pools, beaches, activities, decent food, and enough infrastructure that traveling with kids doesn’t feel unnecessarily hard.

At this stage of parenting, “family-friendly” still matters. We need a pool, direct flight, space, and ease!

The Planning Process

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Some places ask you to do things. Others ask you to see things. Marfa does neither in the traditional sense. It’s a place you settle into. The scale is small, the pace is slow, and the expectations, you HAVE to let them go, reveal something much more interesting underneath.

This is a town where world-class art lives next to feed stores, where dinner might be one of the best meals you’ve had all year, and where the night sky can feel like the main event. Minimalist artist Donald Judd didn’t just move here; he reshaped how people experience space, time, and attention in a place like this. That legacy lingers in ways that are both visible and atmospheric. You feel it in the distances between things, in the way light hits concrete, adobe, and aluminum, in how buildings are used rather than displayed, and in the general absence of urgency.

Marfa doesn’t do overplanning. It rewards patience, flexibility, and a willingness to let the day unfold. Hours shift. Places close. Something else, something better opens up down the street. We (really, me, Daniel) can be runners on trips, trying to hit stop after stop, but in Marfa, the more you loosen your grip on the schedule, the better it gets.

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If you want to take showing your kids art one step further, beyond the fridge, beyond the folder, the most effective move is to give the work a real space. Not everywhere. Not scattered across every wall. One room, or even one clearly defined section of a room, that functions as their gallery.

Think of it less like decoration and more like installation.

Start by choosing the space carefully. A hallway works well because it naturally slows people down. A playroom can work if it has at least one uninterrupted wall. Even a bedroom wall can function if you’re willing to treat part of it differently. What matters is that it feels intentional, this is where the work lives.

Then clear it. Completely. Don’t mix it with family photos or existing art. The power of this setup comes from focus. When everything on the wall is theirs, it reads differently, not as clutter, but as a body of work.

Next, create a simple, repeatable hanging system. This is where most people overcomplicate things. You don’t need frames for everything (though you can use a few strategically). Instead:

• Install a horizontal line of small nails or hooks at a consistent height

• Or use a wire with clips stretched across the wall

• Or go even simpler: painter’s tape in a consistent color

The key is consistency. However you hang one piece, you hang them all that way. That alone creates cohesion.

Now, curate the first “show.” Don’t just fill the wall. Select 8–15 works (depending on the space). Lay them out on the floor first. Move them around. Look for relationships—color, subject, scale. Mix older pieces with newer ones. Let one quieter drawing sit next to something loud. You’re not aiming for perfection, just a sense that the works are in conversation.

Hang them with spacing that breathes. Most people crowd things. Give each piece a little room, even if it means showing fewer works.

Add one small detail that shifts the tone from “display” to “exhibition”: labels. They can be incredibly simple. A strip of paper under each drawing with:

• Title (if they have one, or make one together)

• Date

• Age of the artist

That’s it. Suddenly, the wall reads differently. It signals: this matters.

From there, build a rhythm. This is what turns the space into a practice instead of a one-time project.

Set a schedule for changing the show. Every two weeks, once a month—whatever feels manageable. When it’s time:

1. Take everything down

2. Lay it all out (old + new)

3. Select a new group

4. Rehang

You don’t have to start from scratch every time. You can keep a few anchor pieces and rotate others in and out. Think of it like a rolling exhibition.

Create a “back room.” This can just be the box or folder you’re already using. When something comes off the wall, it either goes into the archive or gets let go. The gallery feeds the archive, and the archive feeds the gallery.

If you want to push it further, introduce light structure:

• Do a “color show” (all drawings with dominant reds/blues/etc.)

• Do a “theme show” (animals, houses, monsters, names)

• Do a “year-in-review” show

You’re not imposing meaning so much as noticing it and making it visible.

And then—this part matters—occasionally treat it like an opening.

Nothing elaborate. But once in a while, when you hang a new show:

• Call them in to look at it

• Walk through it together

• Let them talk about a piece or two

• Maybe take a photo of them with the wall

You’re marking the transition. You’re saying: this is worth pausing for.

There are a few things to watch out for.

Don’t overfill the space. It’s tempting, especially when the volume of work is high. But restraint is what gives the gallery its power.

Don’t only show the “best” work. Show the strange ones, the unresolved ones, the ones that feel like experiments. That’s where growth lives.

And don’t let it become static. The minute it stops changing, it turns back into decoration.

What you end up with, if you do this well, is something surprisingly close to a real curatorial practice, just scaled to the rhythms of your house. A place where the work is taken seriously, but not too seriously. Where change is visible. Where attention accumulates over time.

And maybe the most unexpected part: it changes how you see the drawings.

When they’re stacked in piles, they blur together. When they’re on the wall, spaced out, given a little room, they sharpen. You start to notice decisions, instincts, repetitions. You start to see not just what your kid made, but how they’re thinking.

Which, in the end, is the whole point of giving the work a room of its own.

— Daniel

The two links are affiliate links. If you purchase using them, we may earn a little.

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Savannah is one of those cities that feels slower than it actually is. The architecture is beautiful in that quietly overwhelming way, ornate ironwork, pastel facades, historic homes that seem to stretch on forever, and the trees might be even better. Massive live oaks draped in Spanish moss, forming canopies over entire streets and squares, filtering the light into something softer, almost cinematic. Add in the open containers, creaky porches, and that heavy coastal air, and it all conspires to make you linger. And you should. But underneath that softness is a really interesting, evolving creative scene, artists, small spaces, young chefs doing their thing without a ton of noise.

This is a city for walking, wandering, and letting the day unfold a little. You find more here by paying attention than by planning ahead, and the best moments tend to happen in between the things you thought you came for.

Let’s go.

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Most of us don’t need more places to gather; instead, we need places where we can show up honestly.

This realization eventually led me to start Myleik + Mommas (a mother-adjacent, not mom-exclusive online community) three years ago. I wanted to be in a “mom group” that matched my vibe: thoughtful women who value depth, honesty, and growth without that performative perfection that shows up in so many online mom spaces.

Eventually, the group expanded beyond the internet, and now we gather twice a year: a sleepaway camp at the end of summer and a smaller spring trip somewhere a little less obvious. Think: A quieter city that doesn’t demand a packed itinerary.

This spring, I took the group to Deer Valley, just outside Salt Lake City, with the brand-new Grand Hyatt as our home base. When I polled the group beforehand, only two moms had ever been to Utah.

And I have to say, there’s something incredibly powerful about a group exploring a place none of them know. Everyone is figuring it out together. You’re forced to ask questions and trust someone’s answers. Our defenses are lower, and connection happens quickly. 

The group naturally starts organizing around each other. “Where are you going for breakfast?” “What did you find yesterday?” “How was it?”

I spent a good part of the weekend trying to understand why. (Two incomplete essays later, I’m still thinking about it.) But one thing feels clear: when the group isn’t organized around ambition, people relax into something more honest.

If you find yourself in Deer Valley, here are a few places our group loved (and an official recipe that people couldn’t stop talking about).

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There are cities you visit, and then there are cities you long for in a way that feels slightly unreasonable. Dublin has always been that kind of place for me, a city that feels like home even though it never has been.

On St. Patrick’s Day, Myleik joked that I look like a taller leprechaun. We were back in my actual home city when she pointed it out with amused amazement: all the men looked just like I do — red beards, faces, and arms crowded with more freckles than anyone should reasonably have. I had never noticed it before. But the comment stayed with me. It sat there quietly until Dublin.

Last month, at a Dublin derby at Aviva Stadium, I kept having the same strange feeling. Everyone in the stadium looked like someone I had gone to high school with: the older men like teachers, the younger ones like classmates. It wasn’t literal, but it felt true, like I had slipped into a version of my life cast with slightly different actors. It was disorienting, but also comforting, and like being somewhere new that didn’t ask anything of me because it already knew me.

My time in Dublin was short, part of a three-countries-in-four-days blur. But every time I pulled up directions, I chose walking. Even when it didn’t make sense. Especially then.

I didn’t want to pass through the city from an Uber window. I wanted to live inside it, even briefly — to feel the streets, the small shops, the rhythm of people moving through their routines. The rain sitting heavy in the air, the sun trying, and mostly failing, to break through.

I wanted to pretend I walked those streets every day — to work, to school pick-up, to meet friends for a pint.

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Last week I walked from my hotel to Grand Brasserie in Grand Central Terminal. I had meant to go to the Oyster Bar, but after wandering the terminal for a bit and not finding it (I admittedly didn’t look very hard), I was pulled in by the loud, slightly chaotic charm of the Brasserie. It just felt like business was being handled here.

The place was packed. I made a slow lap around the bar looking for a seat and came up empty. I even made eye contact with a few women guarding barstools with purses and coats, and they gave me the look. You know the one: keep moving. Waiters weaved through tables like they had a train to catch, and martinis landed in front of guests with such precision. The whole restaurant vibrated with the terminal below.

So I got in line at the host stand and said, “Table for one.”

I know better than to ask for a table or “the wait” in New York. You say what you want and expect to get it.

The host gave me a quick once-over — the silent, seriously? — and I nodded yes before he could ask. He quickly seated me in what felt like the worst spot in the restaurant, right in front where the line piled up to get in, but I didn’t care. I was mostly proud I’d secured a seat in a packed New York restaurant in under five minutes.

I ordered the prix fixe dinner: tuna tartare, moules frites swimming in white wine and garlic, and crème brûlée with caramel brittle. Three courses for $65, and not a single course missed!

Somewhere between the bread basket and my glass of wine, I remembered the first time I came to New York with an agenda of my own.

I had one year of college left and had recently been dropped by my then-boyfriend for someone who, as he explained it, “knew what they wanted to be.” A brutal thing to hear when you’re twentyish. So I applied for a ten-week summer internship in New York, hoping the city might help me answer the question for myself: Who did I want to be?

I fudged my GPA to make sure I fully “qualified.”

They hired me.

The internship was at Unilever on the Calvin Klein fragrance marketing team, which sounds much sexier than it actually was. The work itself was slow and mostly boring: spreadsheets, brand decks, and endless meetings about positioning “classic fragrances.” But the outings, theatre nights, and executive dinners were where I came alive.

One night, we had dinner with a group of senior executives, including the CEO of Essence. At some point, he jokingly challenged the table: Who’s ordering the wine?

I raised my hand.

My wine knowledge came from exactly one summer at Enterprise Rent-A-Car, where my boss took us wine tasting in Sonoma. After that trip, you couldn’t tell me I didn’t know what I was doing.

So I ordered the wine.

The CEO and I ended up talking most of the night about careers, ambition, and where we both came from. At one point, we both cried, which is not what anyone expects at a corporate dinner. By the end of the evening, he handed me his card and told me to call his assistant in the morning. She would book my flight, ticket, and hotel.

I was going to the Essence Festival, something I had dreamed about for years but could never afford.

New York has always pulled that version of me forward. The one who raises her hand and orders the wine. Sitting there at Grand Brasserie, I remembered how this city works. It takes a little nerve, a lot of audacity, and every now and then a slightly improved GPA.

I finished my moules frites while people sprinted for trains or dragged themselves through the door after long days. I paid the bill and stepped back into the terminal, swallowed again by the rush of the city.

And for a brief moment, I felt twenty again.

— Myleik

People ask all the time: you get to travel a lot—what’s a city you want to spend more time in? The answer is always the same: Oakland. It’s the coolest city that I always wish I could go back to. It’s the kind of city that doesn’t need to persuade you. Oakland just is: loud, warm, complicated, funny, deeply neighborhoody, and full of people who are making things because they have to.

It’s a port city and a protest city and an immigrant city. It’s also a city where you can eat Eritrean food for lunch, go look at serious contemporary art made by artists with disabilities in the afternoon, drink a pristine martini at night, and still have time to watch the light change over Lake Merritt like it’s the main event.

You don’t “do” Oakland by ticking off landmarks. You move by appetite: for a walk, for a perfect bowl of noodles, for a gallery that’s small but sharp, for a bar that feels like it has always existed. Oakland is best experienced without a plan.

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Family vacations tend to orbit around the children or the most travel-ambitious adult in the room. We’re usually guilty of both.

This winter break, the mission was simple: I wanted to rest.

I sat down at my laptop to plan the trip, and “sun and water” quickly narrowed the map. I booked the Conrad Tulum Riviera Maya because I’d stayed there before, and it fit the budget. It’s technically Tulum, but well outside both downtown and the hotel zone.

Winter break is, in my opinion, an unnecessary travel occasion, so I used points for the kids’ tickets to keep airfare within reason. I keep a per-night room ceiling and rarely negotiate with it. I also insist on breakfast being included when we travel with the kids. Spending $80 so they can pick at a buffet isn’t my idea of a calm start to the day. Booking through a travel agent secured it; Amex Fine Hotels & Resorts can usually do the same. Removing the morning decision-making changes the tone of everything that follows.

Transportation from the new airport in Tulum is the wild card. Round-trip car service under $500 is nearly impossible, so we went with Lomas Travel, which has reputable, slightly imperfect reviews, and a few hundred dollars less than the premium options. Because I was mentally prepared for it to be just okay, it was actually pretty good.

I don’t make plans on trips like this unless it’s a boat ride for a few hours. The plan was the pools and the ocean. The children swam for hours, built sand castles, and made friends. They went to bed early because they were sun- and saltwater-tired. If I were a betting person, I’d say they liked being on my schedule: no rushing, no reservations to make, no car outside waiting for us.

I hired a sitter through Kangaroo Tulum, who arrived prepared and on her A-game. I appreciate a sitter who understands the assignment: Parents want to leave without a production. She came with Uno cards in hand; the kids were squealing and trying to use their Spanish as we slipped out the door.

We had one dinner at Arca. Daniel, who can build a 100-stop itinerary with ease, seemed perfectly content to float in the ocean every day. I read Right Thing, Right Now and went to bed early most nights. The days repeated themselves, and that was the point.

We came home relaxed and a little sunburnt.

Early on, I told Daniel I don’t expect every vacation to expand my world. He didn’t quite see it at first, but he fully understands it now.

Sometimes travel is about discovery, and other times it’s about recovery.

— Myleik

Disclosure: The link to the book is an affiliate link, which means I may earn a small commission at no additional cost to you.

Not sending a link or saying, you should try this sometime. I mean, bringing someone there. Building it up. Returning to the site of your private conversation and hoping the magic is still in the air.

Because the truth is, the first time you fall for a place, it’s never just the place.

It’s the timing.
The weather.
Your mood.
The conversation you were having.
The one you weren’t.
What you were escaping.
What you were hoping for.

Maybe you walked into that restaurant the night after a brutal week. The light was low, the music just loud enough, and the first bite landed like relief. Maybe you found a bar alone while traveling and the bartender spoke to you like you belonged there. Maybe you wandered into a museum when your life felt off-balance, and the work met you exactly where you were standing.

Every note hit.

Afterward, the place doesn’t just stay in your memory. It becomes a private shorthand. That place. That night. That feeling.

And eventually, you want someone you love to experience it too.

So you start talking about it repeatedly and with conviction. You say things like, you don’t understand, it was incredible. You say, we have to go back. You say, it might be the best meal I’ve ever had.

Each retelling raises the stakes.

Because now you’re not just sharing a place. You’re trying to recreate a moment that belonged to a different version of yourself.

It’s a high-risk, high-reward endeavor.

Last year, my partner went to Tulum on a girls’ trip. At some point, she organized a big dinner at a restaurant called Arca. Ever since, she’s talked about it with the tone people use when they’ve discovered something rare and personal.

One of the best meals of my life.
We have to go.

Last night, we went.

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In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, a holiday I can’t say we fully observe, I find myself buying small tokens for my children. I’ve picked up heart candies and other little things I hope will delight them, so our indifference to the holiday doesn’t feel like absence. I want the gesture to land, even if the holiday doesn’t.

Valentine's Day has always felt forced to me. One brightly lit evening where we're supposed to concentrate all our intimacy. Flowers sent, reservations made, and a photo to prove it happened.

The love I recognize most clearly lives in much quieter moments. Thinking about this weekend, I began to consider the places where I've felt most loved: with friends, with my partner, alone, and as a family.

With Friends Arca

Each year, a group of my neighborhood moms leave town together, and I always plan a “statement” dinner where we can get dressed and have a moment.

I’ve never been in a fully outdoor restaurant as romantic as Arca in Tulum. The restaurant glows in low light. Candle flames flicker, and smoke from a copal ceremony drifts through the open air after each sitting, their ritual.

These trips allow us to remember who we are when we’re not someone’s mother or partner. And the evening we had dinner together felt like a ceremony for exactly that. A table full of women who chose each other, and keep choosing each other. How special is that?

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In our informal poll of where the anniversary city guide should be, the number one answer was: “an under-the-radar city.” That got us thinking about how Cincinnati feels like a city that’s been quietly paying attention while everyone else was rushing past. Built into hills along the Ohio River, it has an old-world backbone: German beer halls, Italianate buildings, 19th-century bridges, tons of art, and a present that’s surprisingly experimental. It’s Midwestern without being bland, historic without being precious, and scrappy enough to keep things interesting.

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You don’t “do” Cincinnati in a checklist way. You wander neighborhoods, dip in and out of institutions, eat more than you planned to, and keep noticing how good the bones are. The city rewards curiosity.

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We’ve told you how to take an art stroll in the middle of the night in Vegas. How to snag an impossible seat at the best restaurants. How to see art everywhere. But we’ve never actually introduced ourselves.

Think of this as the conversation you’d have with us over drinks. Daniel orders the house specialty if it feels sincere. Myleik starts with coffee. Always. You learn quickly that one of us will walk until genuinely lost. The other wants at least one solid reservation on the books.

So, pull up a chair. Let’s get to know each other.

What do you want your first hour in a new place to feel like?

Daniel:
Grounded. Oriented. A long walk, fresh air, maybe grab a tea. I love getting somewhere, taking off on foot, and trying to get lost.

Myleik:
The first hour can’t be rushed. I used to hit the ground running when I traveled for work. Now it has to feel like a deep exhale. Even landing in New York can feel that way if my mind is right.

Hotel drop first or straight into the streets?

Daniel:
Bag drop if it’s easy, then straight back out. I prefer not feeling tethered to a bag—bringing it into a gallery or bar—but I also don’t want to linger indoors when there’s a city waiting.

Myleik:
I’m a hotel drop person. I don’t trust leaving things in the car in any city. I still can’t believe someone stole my “self-care” gifts in Ojai. On a spiritual trip!

What signals to you that you’ve landed somewhere good?

Daniel:
People walking with purpose but not urgency. Good public transit. I’m best with people all around and often do not enjoy drive/park/hang out/drive/park/hang out cities (with the exception, oddly, of LA). I never want to stay in a part of town that feels isolated.

Myleik:
If we’re landing and there’s a ton of blue water everywhere and the sun is beaming, I know I’m going to be happy. We once went to Bermuda, and the landing was epic. I was a little worried because I did not see a runway!

Are you a reservation-maker or wing-it eater?

Daniel:
A mix. One or two anchor reservations, the rest improvised. And, probably more than that, now that I’m old, I’m big on the early pop-in, grab-a-seat-at-the-bar move.

Myleik:
I always need at least one solid reservation. I’m willing to wing it sometimes because I have an unnatural confidence that I can always make something shake, but I need one.

Do you research restaurants in advance or trust the moment?

Daniel:
I research enough to know what matters locally, then trust the moment. I want to know what I’d regret missing, not plan every bite.

Myleik:
Research! But if I have a great meal somewhere, I always ask the server where they eat because if you work here and it’s good, I know you know good food.

What makes a meal memorable to you when traveling?

Daniel:
Context. Sitting with my loved ones (or more importantly, one of my loved ones). Who’s nearby. The feeling that this food makes sense here and couldn’t quite exist anywhere else. Also, underrated but important: the weather. I love a drink from a coconut on a hot day. I also love lacing up boots and struggling through snow and wind to get to a warm bar with your people.

Myleik:
An interesting location. I’m a sucker for decor. A staff that educates and nudges me toward a little adventure. Excellent food. Great company.

Early mornings or late nights?

Daniel:
Both. I have a hard time sleeping when I’m somewhere I find inspiring.

Myleik:
Early mornings, except in New York City. I will make a 9P dinner reservation if I have to.

What kind of place holds your attention longest?

Daniel:
Places with layers: public art, memorials, stadiums, campuses, moving water, neighborhoods where history and daily life overlap, people moving. I like cities that are cheap. Cities where people can afford to be weird. Where you can try things out. Where you can quit your job and start a kombucha company, raise bees, or build your own boat.

Myleik:
Places with lots of local businesses. I'm looking at how people build. What do they lead with? What do they charge? What feels excessive, yet necessary. Stationery shops, coffee shops, small brands that feel intentional. If it has a point of view, I’m hooked.

Cocktail, wine, beer, coffee, or mocktail?

Daniel:
All specific to the place. Most likely cocktail. Unless it’s super-hot.
Miami = lightest beer available
New Orleans = Sazerac
Maine = peaty Scotch
Baltimore = light beer with Old Bay fries
Back home = local Riesling

I try to eat and drink local… unless it’s Chicago because Malört is so gross.

Myleik:
Always coffee first. Hot and black.
If the list is good, bubbles. If not, the lightest red. If it’s there, Sancerre.
Two drinks max. Third is always a mocktail.

Are you loyal to a classic or always trying the house specialty?

Daniel:
House specialty, but only if it feels sincere, not clever for clever’s sake.

Myleik:
Neither. I’m not a cocktail person.

What makes a hotel feel “right” to you?

Daniel:
Good light. Quiet. A sense that I could write there. And a location that lets me step outside and immediately walk into the city. I recently was on a solo trip and the first night just needed somewhere to lay down. I was exhausted but didn’t want to spend another moment in the room. Myleik made me switch rooms, and it was glorious. There was so much happening just downstairs, and I barely wanted to leave that beautiful room.

Myleik:
I made him switch rooms because we don’t tolerate things we don’t have to on solo trips. He was in Vegas and switched to Aria (easy and usually reasonably priced).

A hotel feels right to me when there’s a great scent (think 1 Hotels), lots of light, and smart decor (think Conrad Downtown LA). Add a good tub and a good bar (Four Seasons New Orleans), and you’re alright with me.

What has to happen for you to call it a good trip?

Daniel:
At least one moment where I slow down without meaning to. Where I went to see a work of art, had a meal, stopped for a quick drink, and it was better than I expected. When it catches you. When you almost forget to document it. An experience that makes you feel privileged to be there.

Myleik:
I have to leave feeling like I barely scratched the surface. Mexico City did that to me.

Your turn.