If you’re new here, welcome. I write for those of us who want to use the freedom of this phase of life well—with honest stories, practical advice and lessons learned across more than fifty countries.

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I’ve always wanted to see India. My husband, not so much. So we went to Italy, Japan, Greece–all incredible trips–and I put a pin in India. But then, I started to ask myself why. The answer was more complicated than I expected: guilt, perception, and a nagging fear that traveling without my husband might somehow affect our relationship.

Eventually I arrived at a simple conclusion: Yes, I’m happily married. Yes, I travel without my husband.

For a variety of reasons, I retired early. He still loves his job. So I have a lot more time–and sometimes more inclination–to travel. There are places I want to go that he doesn’t. There are girls’ trips I want to take. Time I want to spend with my sister. Or one of my children.

Sometimes I actually want to travel by myself. Thank you very much.

A good relationship doesn’t require identical appetites for travel

At this point in my life, I finally have more freedom to travel—but I occasionally notice I’m schlepping around old unwritten rules. When I say mine out loud it feels silly. I consider myself a strong, independent woman. My husband and I consider ourselves partners, and my independence is one of the qualities he finds attractive.

But if I’m being honest, I have still thought to myself: “If I’m married, I should travel with my spouse. If my spouse doesn’t want to go, maybe I shouldn’t go either.”

So for a long time, India didn’t happen.

There are plenty of variations on this problem. My friends can’t afford it. My sister can’t get away. My kids aren’t interested. Nobody wants to go where I want to go.

At some point, I realized I didn’t have to wait for everyone else’s availability, interests, budget or appetite for adventure to line up with mine.

Someone can be your favorite person and not your ideal companion for a particular trip. One person wants a resort; another wants to hike. One loves museums; another reaches their lifetime museum quota after 45 minutes. One considers a 4 a.m. fishing trip the opportunity of a lifetime (hi honey!); another considers it grounds for divorce.

My husband really is my person. We were attracted to each other’s carpe diem approach to life, and some of my favorite memories of our 25 years together have happened while traveling—from our first trip skiing in Chile, where we got engaged, to Dubai earlier this year.

Years ago, we booked a week at a dude ranch. I swear he approved it. He may even have helped me choose the place. About a week before we left, he got grumpy.

“Why did we pick a dude ranch? That is a trip for you, not for me. I work so hard and have so little time off. I want to do something pleasant during this time.” It escalated into a small man-tantrum.

Then we went. By the end of the week he wanted to buy his horse, Zeke, and bring him home. “When exactly will you ride this horse?” I sensibly cross-examined him. “At 5:00 a.m. before work.”I suggested we go home and think about it. His common sense eventually returned.

He ended up loving the trip, but I took his original point. His vacation time is limited. A trip that is perfect for me isn’t automatically the trip he should spend it on. And maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Different people bring out different versions of us

For the past four years I’ve taken an annual girls trip to Mexico with my college friends. In some ways, I feel 20 again when I’m with them. We sing karaoke and dance at the disco–and then decide we’re tired by 10:30, so perhaps not exactly like when I was 20. These trips remind me that who I used to be and who I am now can coexist, even if only in Mexico for a weekend.

When I travel with my sister, our tour guides laugh at us. It happened in Rwanda, India and Mongolia. We have a running banter that sounds like bickering to the untrained ear.

It’s really sister talk for: I see all the parts of you and I love you through it all.

After losing our youngest sister suddenly, it’s important for us to have that time alone together. And since bickering is perhaps the most sister-y thing we do, sometimes it feels as though our youngest sister is there with us.

Those trips aren’t anything like trips with my husband to Italy or Japan, which give us time to nurture a connection that inevitably frayed a little from lack of attention during the full-throttle parenting years. They aren’t like family trips. They aren’t like traveling alone.

I love and need the occasional reminder that all of these parts of myself still exist and still deserve attention.

Waiting has a cost

It may be uncomfortable to acknowledge that at 25 “someday” has a more infinite ring than it does today. It doesn’t help to pussyfoot around the subject.

If there is somewhere you badly want to go and your partner/friend/everyone doesn’t, how many years are you willing to wait?

No really, I’m waiting for a number. One? Ten?

Will you travel the same way at 72 as you can at 52?

For me, this question hits me right where it hurts the most. I lost both parents and a sister in quick succession. And that’s when I stopped waiting for someday. It was the impetus for my early retirement from law, and it’s the primary reason I go now.

My body gives me another reminder. I broke 13 (!) bones riding horses before I finally got the message that I don’t bounce like I did in my teens. I’ve also dealt with other health issues that make me quick to injure and very slow to recover.

When I book a trip, I don’t always know whether I’ll be able to hike one mile or eight. I hope I’ll be able to walk a city for hours. I’m prepared to ride the bus if I need to.

But I want to walk the cities for as long as I can before I have to ride the bus permanently.

And then there’s the guilt

For a lot of us, this is the massive elephant in the room. Can I really spend this money on a trip my spouse isn’t taking? Is it selfish? Will he feel left behind? Are people going to think it’s strange that we’re married and don’t always vacation together?

Being an empty nester adds another opportunity for guilt. I miss my kids terribly. They have also finally discovered the value of a Mom-and-Dad-sponsored vacation and are now quite delighted to be invited along for the ride. Time with them is limited. Shouldn’t we wait until they can come?

The opportunities for guilt are limitless. I should know. I retired very early. I’m acutely aware of how fortunate I am to have this freedom, although some of the circumstances that made it possible came through losses I would never have chosen.

Still, I sometimes feel guilty for not contributing to our family finances in the same way anymore. I am not only leaving my husband home while I travel. I’m leaving him home to work. I’ve worried that my independent travel could strain our relationship, which has led to a lot of checking in.

Are you okay? Are we okay? Am I making enough deposits into our relationship to balance out the withdrawals I make by traveling?

One of those deposits is making sure the trips we take together aren’t always built around what I want.

My husband always wanted to go to Italy. I’d already been several times and probably would have picked somewhere new. Instead, I planned a special trip around his top choices, including a week in Tuscany.

I loved it. Turns out I don’t have to be the person choosing the destination to have a great trip either.

There’s room for both kinds of trips

When did loving someone come to mean that we have to want all the same things?

When I travel with my sister, I have a rule that we can only travel to places that don’t give my husband too much FOMO. He understands why I want time with my sister, my son and daughter, and my girlfriends. And when I’m gone he takes the opportunity to do the things he loves that I’d rather not–or simply can’t–do. Fishing, mountain biking and snowboarding.

I miss him when I’m away.

When I’m home, we spend weekends in Bend, entertain friends, go to dinner and see shows. And we still travel together: Dubai earlier this year; Croatia, Montenegro and Bosnia next month.

Which brings me back to India. I did finally go. I went with my sister.

Leading up to the trip, my husband amused himself by sending articles about Indian rat temples to our family text chat. (They’re real. Look it up.)

But then I went, and the pictures started coming home. The Taj Mahal at sunrise. Tigers at Kanha and Pench. The peaceful waters of Kerala. He had to admit it looked pretty incredible. I daresay he might even have been a little envious.

And the thing I had worried about for years never happened. Going to India without him didn’t diminish what we had together. I got to have the trip I had wanted for so long, he got to skip a trip he genuinely hadn’t wanted to take, and I came home to the same man I’d wanted to travel with all along.

If the person you love doesn’t want the same trip you do, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to choose between the person and the trip.

Maybe he’d even go to India now. Either way, I’m very glad I didn’t wait to find out.

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I said it after my sister lost her wallet somewhere between Portland and Rwanda.

I said it again after a pharmacist in Dubai handed me a strange-looking blister bandage I was convinced I didn’t need.

And I thought it after watching a woman on a freezing red-eye pull out a scarf and turn it into an airplane blanket.

At some point, my sister and I realized we should probably start writing these things down. We started a shared Note on our phones that was never intended to see the light of day. It was just a running list of the things we had forgotten, needed, borrowed, bought, or learned about the hard way—and wanted to remember before the next trip.

The Note kept growing after winding roads that made me queasy, dusty safari drives, hotel rooms with outlets in all the wrong places, and blackout curtains that always manage to leave one infuriating strip of light right down the middle.

Eventually, the Note became so long and unruly that I decided it needed to be organized. And then it occurred to me: I now have more than 2,000 Substack subscribers, many of whom might actually want to know what someone who has traveled to more than fifty countries has learned to put in her suitcase.

I’m acutely aware that the world is not suffering from a shortage of packing lists. But this one didn’t start as a packing list. It started with actual problems—mostly mine—and the things that solved them. So before I share the whole thing, here are a few of the problems that earned something a permanent place on the list.

1. The thing I learned the hard way

It started on the way to Rwanda. We flew from the West Coast to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam and were awaiting our layover to Kigali. My sister suddenly started to panic:

“I lost my wallet!”

At first, I was sure it was buried at the bottom of her bag. It wasn’t.

She eventually concluded that her open-top tote had tipped over during the twelve-hour flight and the wallet had fallen out. We retraced our steps: back to the gate (no, they wouldn’t let us back on the plane), then over to lost and found (fill out this form; no, we don’t have a way to send it to you in Rwanda), and finally somewhere we could get a drink (“Everything’s going to be fine”).

The good news was that she still had her passport. The bad news was that she had no credit card, debit card, cash, or driver’s license—and we had barely started the trip.

I’m a glass-half-full girlie, so I was mostly relieved that she could still go to Rwanda. She could use my credit cards and pay me back later. But we still spent part of the trip trying to contact the airline, cancel her cards, order replacements, and figure out how to replace a driver’s license from another continent.

The solution to this problem was obvious: a zipper.

We both agreed to leave the cute open-top totes at home and find a crossbody purse that zipped completely closed. It needed to be large enough to carry the basics, small enough not to weigh us down, and nice enough that it could be the only purse we brought.

We ended up splurging on the same Tumi bag. She got the one with the black zipper and I got the gold zipper, so we could tell them apart. There are similar bags available for much less.

The brand is negotiable; the zipper isn’t.

2. The thing the pharmacist taught me

Whether I’m in hiking boots, flip flops or high heels, my feet blister easily. Earlier this year I was on a particularly brutal hike through the Dubai Mall in the wrong pair of flats when I was besieged by an outbreak of blisters. Fortunately the Dubai Mall has over 1,200 stores so I knew a pharmacy had to be near.

My Arabic is nonexistent, but I thought my pantomimed request for Band-Aids was pretty clear. The pharmacist handed me a package that didn’t look anything like Band-Aids and was labeled entirely in Arabic.

I thought he didn’t understand me. He seemed equally convinced that I didn’t understand him. I eventually gave in because he had the upper hand. There weren’t any other options, and at that point I couldn’t comfortably walk anywhere else.

He was right. I was wrong.

They were hydrocolloid blister bandages. You put one over the blister and leave it there. It cushions the spot, doesn’t immediately peel off, and—most important at that moment—let me walk again. I bought extras.

Hydrocolloid bandages went straight into my travel medical kit and have been there ever since.

3. The ridiculous-looking thing that solves a real problem

Some entries are embarrassingly ordinary. My sister loves her blackout curtains at home and hates when the light peeks in from the gap in hotel curtains. I’m sure you can solve this problem by purchasing a sleep accessory. We chose to steal a binder clip from my home office.

And since hotel rooms are apparently designed by people who’ve never stayed in one, we also bring along two other helpful items. The first one is a small nightlight that helps me find the bathroom in the middle of the night when I’m changing hotel rooms every three nights and have no idea whether it’s to the left or right of the bed. The second is a long extension cord with multiple charging ports. This solves the problem of outlets being located behind furniture, across the room, or only on one person’s (and somehow never mine) side of the bed.

All three of these ordinary objects make a hotel room feel that much better.

4. The item that became part of the trip’s story

Not everything on the list came from a mishap.

On a connecting red-eye flight through Dallas, the woman sitting next to me pulled out a large scarf and covered herself with it. The airline hadn’t provided blankets, we were both wearing shorts, and the plane was freezing.

Her scarf looked incredibly comfortable. I made a mental note.

Later, while traveling through Mongolia, I bought an oversized cashmere scarf from Gobi Cashmere. Since then, it has pinch-hit as an airplane blanket, pillow, eye mask, earplug substitute, and actual scarf.

It’s substantial enough to keep me warm but still fits easily in my carry-on. And I can wear it throughout the trip. While my scarf may not be an essential travel document, I now don’t leave home without it.

5. The thing still on probation

Sometimes I learn about an interesting product from a friend. But until I’ve tried it myself, it’s on probation.

The current candidate is a bug bite zapper. One of my sister’s best friends brought it on a recent hiking trip to the Dolomites (I wasn’t invited. My sister went with business school friends.) and swears by it. This gadget plugs into an iPhone and delivers a burst of heat that supposedly stops a bug bite from itching.

What?!

If it works, it could solve a major travel problem for me. I have a dramatic reaction to insect bites. They swell, itch, and at least one inevitably becomes a full-time distraction for several days.

The bug-bite zapper will be traveling with me to Croatia in September. If it works, it earns a permanent place on the list. If it doesn’t, you won’t find it in the guide.

Wish it—and me—luck. And drop a comment if you’ve used it and have an opinion.

“Good stories. Now what about that Guide?”

Once I started organizing the overgrown iPhone Note, I realized how many different kinds of travel it covered.

There were things I do before leaving home, things I keep with me on long-haul flights, and things that solve recurring problems in hotels. Some items belonged exclusively on hiking trip or safaris; others on beach and boat trips. I had a few must-have personal care items. There were inexpensive items like binder clips and considerably more expensive items like my Away suitcase.

That’s when I decided to turn the Note into the Travel Improver Guide.

I don’t just list items; I explain why they made the cut and when I’ve actually used them. I’m including links, too, where they’re helpful. And yes, there will be a straightforward checklist at the end. You don’t have to read every story just to remember the hydrocolloid bandages.

I’m also including a section called “Currently Testing,” because everything needs to come on a trip and prove itself to earn a permanent spot on the list.

This guide has been a real labor of love and I’m still putting finishing touches on it. But I don’t want all the recommendations to come from me. Some of the best things on my list came from another traveler, so now I want to know:

Tell me in the comments. I’m reserving a section of the guide for reader recommendations, and I’d love to include yours—with credit, of course.

The Travel Improver Guide started as a private Note between my sister and me. Now I’m inviting 2,000 other travelers to let me in on your Notes.

I’ve been looking at my travel budget all wrong. I’ve always filed mentally it under “vacations,” alongside other things that are enjoyable but not strictly necessary. The more I think about it, the more I believe at least part of it belongs as a “health” expense. This could end up being terrible news for my accountant.

I admit I didn’t arrive at this theory through rigorous scientific inquiry. I was mostly looking for a respectable defense of the amount of money I spend traveling.

But the more I read about healthy aging, the more familiar the advice began to sound. Move your body. Keep learning. Try new things. Spend time with other people. Get outside. Stay curious.

No doctor has ever written “Spend two weeks in Croatia” on a prescription pad. (If you’ve found one who does, please send me a referral.)

But when I travel I seem to be doing nearly everything experts say I should be doing—often without realizing it.

When I travel I forget I’m exercising.

For years, I thought I lacked discipline when it came to exercise. I did it because I knew I should, not because I especially enjoyed it.

My body hasn’t always made movement easy. Between autoimmune-related pain and a collection of broken bones and strained tendons acquired over the years, exercise has often felt like one more obligation on my list. But that’s not what happens when I travel.

When I travel, I climb endless stairs in Lisbon, Santorini and Machu Picchu. I hike to see mountain gorillas in Rwanda, wander (and wade) national parks with my son, and I drag luggage up to Airbnbs five flights up.

There’s also the athletic event that consists of hoisting a heavy suitcase into an overhead luggage rack on a European train. I’ve medaled in this strength event several times.

It turns out I’m not avoiding movement—just meaningless movement (apologies to my trainer). Give me something worth walking toward and twenty thousand steps feels like an ordinary afternoon.

It keeps my brain working.

This one is personal. One of my deepest fears is developing dementia. I watched my mother disappear into it. I’m terrified of putting my husband and children through that long and painful process.

So I pay attention when researchers talk about protecting brain health. Many of them point to the value of novelty, learning, adapting, and building “cognitive reserve.”

Every trip requires me to solve small problems all day long. I have to understand an unfamiliar train system, decipher a menu, calculate currency conversions, recover from a missed turn or change plans without freaking out when a flight is cancelled. I’m in constant problem-solving mode.

None of this guarantees that I’ll avoid dementia. But every time I travel, I’m asking my brain to pay attention. That feels worth doing.

It reminds me that I’m still capable.

The older I get, the better I am at arranging my life exactly the way I like it.

I know which restaurants I enjoy and which hotels have good beds. This is the benefit of decades of “research.” I happily concede that comfort is fabulous. I’ve earned it. But I also know that if I don’t make the effort, comfort can start making decisions for me.

Travel gets me out of my rut.

This year alone, I’ve slept in a ger in Mongolia, jumped into a waterfall in Jamaica and camped in a tent after years of believing hotels were among civilization’s greatest achievements. I also hiked miles through the Narrows at Zion while dealing with vertigo because continuing felt more important than turning around. I’m not sure that last one was evidence of good judgment.

The point is that every now and then, I do something I wasn’t entirely sure I could do. And I know a little more about myself. The person I am now at 56, not the one I was at 25 or 40. And I love that she keeps surprising me.

It reminds me how small I am.

Some of my strongest travel memories aren’t about the famous landmarks at all. They are standing quietly with mountain gorillas and thinking about how much my youngest sister would have loved watching them move through the forest in Rwanda. And imagining the characters in Through Water and Stone watching sunrise paint Zion’s cliffs in the same place I stood. Or the perspective of impossible smallness I felt beneath the clear Gobi Desert sky.

Research tells us nature lowers stress. You don’t need to study the science to recognize the feeling. Nature shrinks my problems back down to their proper size.

It strengthens relationships.

Before my son moved to Texas to begin his first real adult job, we spent a week driving there together.

We visited national parks and hiked through canyons and caves. We also ate our body weights in Hot Tamales.

But the memories also come from the hours we spent in the car. We talked about work, money, exercise, car insurance, grocery budgets and how to build a life that feels balanced. His idea was waking up every day at 5:30 a.m. to exercise. Report back on that one, kid.

I’ve had versions of those trips with my sister too, who continues to share hotel rooms with me despite knowing exactly how many times I get up to pee during the night.

Then there are the people I meet along the way: guides who change how I understand their countries, drivers who tell me about their families, and strangers I speak with once and never see again.

Travel intensifies all of these relationships through more time together, fewer distractions and a steady supply of things going slightly wrong. Years later, the inconvenience is often the part that makes the best travel stories.

It starts long before departure.

My trips begin months before I leave. I open maps open on my laptop and review restaurant lists. I read novels set in places I’m excited to see. I daydream about whether this is finally the year I make it to Namibia (I think next year is it!).

Psychologists like Amit Kumar and Thomas Gilovich have spent years studying why experiences tend to create more lasting happiness than material purchases. Part of the reason is anticipation—this doesn’t surprise me at all.

I enjoy the trip itself. And I enjoy the pleasure of planning, daydreaming and looking forward to trips. Then, after I come home, I get to travel all over again by writing these essays. One trip keeps on giving.

So is travel really the Fountain of Youth?

I haven’t figured out yet how travel can prevent wrinkles, guarantee longevity, or exempt me from genetics. But it encourages me in ways that are pretty darn valuable. It keeps me: moving, curious, flexible, connected.

Maybe there isn’t a Fountain of Youth. Maybe there are thousands of little fountains scattered around the world. Some are at the top of hiking trails. Others are tucked down unfamiliar streets. Some are hiding at train stations, beaches, museums, cafés, and conversations with people you’ll never see again. And if you keep looking for these fountains, you will keep growing, moving, learning.

I started this little investigation looking for a respectable defense of my travel budget. What I found was a different way of measuring its value. The return is so much more than the places I see or the photographs I bring home. It’s the person I am while I’m out there—and the person who comes home afterward.

That may not be eternal youth. But for now, it feels close enough. And I still think my accountant is going to hate it.

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My son wanted me to hike the Narrows with him. He didn’t need me to–he actually wanted my company.

Unfortunately, I was already going into it with a sore hip and back. Then, during the drive to Utah, I was trying to be productive and write last week’s article on my phone when a terrible case of motion sickness came on...and turned into a miserable bout of vertigo that lasted more than 36 hours.

Any one of those would have been a perfectly reasonable excuse to skip hiking. I had no idea that the hardest—and best—part of the trip wouldn't be the hiking. It would be realizing what I'd been missing.

The Narrows at Zion National Park is one of the country’s best-known hikes, winding through a river between towering canyon walls. But even the “Bottom-Up” portion of the trail is physically demanding.

We’d already rented the gear—waterproof hiking boots, neoprene booties for socks, and the ubiquitous sturdy hiking poles that take up almost as much space as the people riding the shuttle out to the trailhead.

And I had come all this way to spend time with my son, so I decided to try.

To our mutual surprise, I hiked seven miles round trip through the Narrows. Not bad on any day for a hike that requires walking through a cold, moving river over slick rocks that are completely obscured by the murky water.

I can’t believe I’m writing this, but even with vertigo, it was fun.

Every step was different. We climbed over boulders, waded through water that ranged from ankle to chest-deep, and never quite knew if the next step would be the one to send us swimming. Around us, people experienced the river in every imaginable way. Children (and some adults) splashed and swam. Families picnicked along the shore. Others charged upstream at a pace that made me wonder if they could somehow see through the murky water.

The scenery was as spectacular as I’d imagined, but what surprised me most was how joyful it all felt. I’ve never had so much fun hiking seven miles. Wading in and out of the river, even having to keep my eyes at horizon level to stave off the dizziness, never felt like work. It felt like play.

The next morning, at my son’s urging, we got up early to hike two more trails. We started with the Canyon Overlook Trail at sunrise. It wasn’t the most spectacular sunrise I’ve ever seen, but standing there together as the canyon slowly lit up was enough.

Then we headed to the steeper West Rim Trail. This time, I had to turn back mid-hike. As my son continued toward the viewpoint, I carefully limped my way back down the paved trail alone, trying not to feel defeated. Walking back alone gave me more time to think than I wanted.

The difference between love and time

That’s when I realized something that had never occurred to me before. My son and I had never spent a full week together, just the two of us. I immediately wondered whether that was also true of my daughter.

It wasn’t.

She was a competitive equestrian. Horse shows meant countless hours at the barn and road trips up and down the West Coast and into Canada, sometimes for two weeks at a time. During many of those years, I was riding and competing too. We shared a passion that naturally created thousands of hours together.

Here’s the part that’s hard to admit out loud.

Even though I believe I parented my children equally, I don’t think my son would say he experienced it that way. My daughter simply had more face time with me. And face time matters.

Whatever

This trip brought me closer to my son. Not just because I saw the capable adult he’d become—the one who planned the trip and protectively reached out his hand whenever the rushing water and my vertigo made me wobbly.

It was also because we had something that’s surprisingly rare once your children become adults: uninterrupted time.

Time to talk about whatever. And there was plenty of whatever.

His first job. Car insurance. Grocery budgets. Figuring out how to have work-life balance. Did I think it was realistic for him to get up at 5:45 a.m. every morning to exercise once work gets busy? (Not for me. Maybe for him.) The ordinary conversations that don’t always fit into a quick phone call or holiday visit.

Somewhere along those seven days and all that whatever, I realized something else.

We travel the same way—junk food, long podcasts we pause for even longer discussions, and a shared belief that stopping for a bathroom break is something to postpone as long as humanly possible. We learned that we are genuinely compatible travel companions.

The surprise

Parents hope their adult children will still want to spend time with them.

I came home with something even better.

The best thing I brought home from Zion wasn’t a photograph or another national park memory.

It was discovering that I’d happily choose to spend time with him.

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As I’ve gotten older, I’ve unabashedly earned the right to a comfortable bed.

I know which hotels I’ll sleep well in. I appreciate a good meal after a long hike. I no longer behave as if sacrifice automatically makes a trip more authentic.

And yet I’ve also learned something else: if I never push myself outside my comfort zone, my world slowly starts to shrink.

Which is how I ended up last night in a tent in Lassen Volcanic National Park after a ten-hour day of driving. Not my idea. My adult son’s. He proposed and planned the trip, which was a refreshing role reversal and an easy yes. But unlike a travel agent, whose goal is to plan the perfect trip for you, my son planned the perfect trip for…himself.

My son and I have reached what I’d call a successful compromise. They say a negotiation is finished when neither side is completely happy with the outcome. He wanted to camp all week—on BLM land with no facilities. I wanted... considerably more plumbing. And air-conditioning. Instead, we camped last night before continuing our road trip to Texas, where he’s beginning his post-college life.

Neither of us got exactly what we wanted, which probably means we negotiated well.

The real reason I said yes, of course, wasn’t the camping. Or that I claimed dibs on the fancy air mattress. It was the chance to spend one more uninterrupted week with my son before we no longer live in the same state. The destination could have been almost anywhere.

Still, I’d be lying if I said this trip didn’t push me. While I enjoy an occasional road trip, it’s the second time this month I’ve driven across the country (I explained that particular mishegas in last week’s essay, The Empty Nester Logic Trap. And though I am eager to see some new (to me) national parks and noteworthy hiking scenery, July is a hot, crowded time for hiking the Southwest.

By late afternoon we’d arrived at Lassen and pitched camp—or, more accurately, my son had pitched camp while I contributed moral support and tried to be helpful attending to other things. Then we headed out to hike Bumpass Hell. You read that right. The trail is named after a man named Bumpass who allegedly fell not once but twice into the sulphur pits while leading a tour and ended up losing his leg. But why “Hell”? I’m pretty sure that’s because of the smell.

Lassen National Park is full of steaming vents, bubbling mud pots, and sulphur pools. For much of the trail you’re accompanied by the unmistakable smell of sulphur. It’s persistent enough that you start wondering whether the views at the end could possibly justify it.

They do.

The landscape looks almost otherworldly, with steam rising from bright mineral pools in every direction. I’d only seen anything quite like it in Yellowstone.

The morning after camping we packed up and took a quick stroll around Summit Lake, which flanked our campground. The plan was just to stretch our legs before a long day of driving.

Instead, as we rounded the lake, we looked up to find Lassen Peak glowing with early morning sunlight and reflected almost perfectly in the water.

Ironically, one of my favorite moments of the trip came on the easiest walk we took. It reminded me that pushing myself isn’t simply about collecting uncomfortable experiences. Sometimes the reward comes after you’ve pushed yourself, sometimes after you’ve stopped pushing.

As we followed the tracks of flattened reeds around the lake, I thought about how differently this trip unfolded than most of the trips I’ve taken with my children over the years.

My son chose the route. He picked the campground. He pitched the tent. He built the fire (I tossed on a few twigs). Together we boiled water and made—and, to my mild surprise, actually enjoyed—a freeze-dried camping dinner. Mine was Butternut Dal Bhat in case you’re shopping for one.

Somewhere along the way, he’d become the one leading the adventure. And maybe that was the larger reason this trip mattered. Less so because I slept in a tent; more because I got to step into his world for a while instead of guiding him through mine.

But I do need to keep saying yes to things that make me just uncomfortable enough to remind me I can still surprise myself.

Sometimes that’s jumping from a 35 foot platform into a waterfall in Jamaica. This week it was sleeping in a tent for one night and watching my adult son take the lead in planning the trip.

The details will be different for you. What matters is not letting comfort become the size of your life.

(Although I still maintain one night of camping is the correct number.)

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And yet somehow when my newly graduated son explained why we needed to drive 2,000 miles to Texas...twice...in the same month...during the heat of July...I nodded along like it made perfect sense.

His explanation involved a U-Haul, his girlfriend’s earlier start date, her car, his car, and a timeline that collapses under even the gentlest cross-examination.

I said yes before he finished asking. Because this wasn’t really about getting to Texas.

A couple of years ago, I was abruptly fired from what seemed like the most major job I’d ever had.

I have two children who are 21 months apart in age and only one year apart in school. They graduated, moved out, and just like that I went from overworked and under-appreciated chef, chauffeur, tutor and laundress...to utterly unemployed.

No Google review, no retirement party, no letter of commendation. Just silence. Like most empty nesters, I suddenly found myself with 33 reasons a week to check in. “Hi honey. Just wanted to see how classes are going.” “Do anything fun this weekend?” “How’s the roommate?”

Then my sister-in-law shared the greatest parenting hack I’ve ever heard. She couldn’t get her college kids to answer her calls. But the dog? The dog always got through. If the dog wanted to FaceTime, ring-ring...there they were.

So naturally Charlie and Romeo got Snapchat before I did. Charlie wanted to know how classes were going. Romeo wondered what the new apartment was like. Miraculously, my children never left the dog or cat on “read.”

Ironically, I was the kid who moved 3,000 miles away for college. I loved the adventure and always encouraged my own children to do the same.

Neither did. They stayed in-state, just a few hours from home. Close enough for spontaneous weekends and even a breakfast or two. (Me. I drove to breakfast.) Close enough that I eased into empty nesting instead of falling off a cliff.

Then my son accepted his first job in Austin. Suddenly “I’ll just drive down this weekend” became two time zones and 2,000 miles.

I was thrilled for him. I was also, if I’m honest, a little shaken. Or, as my son would say, shook.

So when he asked if I’d help him drive across the country—and spend a week hiking national parks together along the way—I didn’t hesitate.

Never mind that we’d already be making essentially the same drive two weeks earlier with the U-Haul. Never mind that I’d be crossing the country twice in one month. Both times going the same direction. Or that July is an objectively terrible time to drive across the Southwest.

I knew all of that. I just didn’t care. Because somewhere between loading boxes and mapping hiking trails, it became obvious that I was driving for the uninterrupted week of conversations that don’t happen over hurried phone calls. And for one more chance to hear what he’s excited about, what worries him, and who he’s becoming before his new life begins.

That’s the funny thing about becoming an empty nester. You spend years teaching your children to become independent. Then, the minute they no longer need you every day, you’ll happily agree to the world’s least efficient road trip just to borrow a little more time.

Apparently this drive wasn’t about Texas at all. It was about one more chance to be needed. And even this rational lawyer mama will fall for that chance every single time.

Next week, the road trip begins: Lassen, Zion, Antelope Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns, and the conversations that made every mile worth driving. I hope you’ll come along.

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The catch? The trip had already been planned. Three luxury resorts in five days. A chance for a naturopath and a college student to spend long afternoons on the beach.

As much as I love a beach vacation, if I were planning the trip today, I’d do it differently.

That makes this installment of my Worth It / Do-Over series the perfect opportunity to separate what I’d absolutely do again from what I’d change the next time.

Worth It

The Old-World Glamour of Jamaica Inn

As long as we were headed to three luxury resorts, I was going to enjoy them. And I did.

But reading novels set in Jamaica changed what I noticed once I arrived. Instead of simply admiring beautiful beaches and elegant rooms, I found myself paying attention to who owned the resorts and how they fit into Jamaica’s larger story.

Jamaica Inn stands out as one of the few remaining luxury resorts still owned by Jamaicans. Knowing that didn’t diminish the luxury—it enriched it. It’s something I’ll pay closer attention to when choosing hotels in the future.

The Villas at Round Hill

Round Hill Resort and Villas is everything you imagine a Caribbean luxury resort to be. Impeccable service. Beautiful grounds. An oceanfront setting that encourages you to slow down.

What surprised me most, though, were the villas.

Nestled in the hills above the hotel are 28 privately owned estates, many available to rent, each with its own architecture, history and spectacular views. Touring them with our guide, Junior, offered a glimpse into an entirely different side of the resort. Celebrity stories and famous former guests (JFK and Jackie on honeymoon, to name drop just once) were entertaining, but what I really loved was seeing how each villa reflected its owners and its place on the hillside.

If you’re staying at Round Hill, don’t skip the villa tour.

The Cliffs of Rockhouse

If someone asks me years from now to picture Negril, I’ll picture the cliffs at Rockhouse Hotel.

Rather than long stretches of sand, the hotel is built directly into dramatic limestone cliffs overlooking impossibly blue shades of water. Some rooms even have ladders descending from private decks into the sea below.

Rick’s Cafe may be the famous place to watch cliff jumping, but I preferred the quieter experience of swimming directly from the hotel, where the scenery—not the spectacle—takes center stage.

Dunn’s River Falls and Blue Hole

Traveling with a twenty-one-year-old means adventure finds its way onto the itinerary.

Climbing Dunn’s River Falls was every bit as fun as I’d hoped, thanks in no small part to guides who somehow managed to shepherd everyone—from the athletic to the hesitant—safely to the top.

Blue Hole offered a different experience altogether. Swimming holes and jumps of varying heights culminated in a 35-foot platform that, surprisingly, I decided to try.

If you’re debating between the two, I wouldn’t. Dunn’s River Falls is iconic for good reason, while Blue Hole feels wilder and more playful. Together, they made for one of my favorite days of the trip.

Eating Local

Resort restaurants were wonderful, but the meals I remember most came from local establishments.

Whether it was jerk chicken, escovitch fish, or ackee and saltfish, Jamaican cuisine tells the story of the island through generations of cultural influences. Eating locally isn’t just about supporting local businesses. It’s one of the most enjoyable ways to begin understanding a place.

Asking One More Question

The best way to understand a destination is almost always through its people.

One conversation about a tree turned into a lesson on Jamaican almond trees (to read the story see the link to article below). Asking a driver about houses perched on distant hillsides led to a discussion about Jamaicans who work abroad before returning home to build houses for their families.

Those conversations lasted only minutes, but they added more depth to the trip than another hour by the pool ever could.

Do-Over: If I Planned This Trip Again

Spend Less Time Changing Hotels

The three resorts were all memorable for different reasons.

What wasn’t memorable was packing, unpacking, checking in, checking out, and spending hours moving between them.

I wanted to compare Jamaica’s luxury resorts. I accomplished that. What I didn’t do was settle into Jamaica itself.

Next time I’d happily trade one beautiful hotel for an extra day of simply being there.

Build the Trip Around Kingston

My biggest oversight was skipping Kingston.

Yes, it can be a several-hour drive from Montego Bay or Ocho Rios, but it’s also Jamaica’s cultural heart. Between the Bob Marley Museum, museums, neighborhoods, music, food, and local guides, I suspect I would have come away with a much richer understanding of modern Jamaica than I could from the resort towns alone.

If I return, Kingston won’t be an afterthought. It will be one of the anchors of the itinerary.

Make More Room for History

Reading three novels before the trip transformed the way I experienced Jamaica (to read my article about it see the link below).

The Literary Itinerary

Reading Jamaica

Margot works at a five-star resort in Montego Bay. To claw her way out of poverty and into upper management, she submits to the sexual demands of the white hotel manager who oversees the property for its foreign owners. She also sells sex to …

Read more

2 months ago · 5 likes · 1 comment · TriciaGlobalTravel

What I didn’t do was give the island’s history equal weight once I arrived.

I’d devote a full day to visiting historical and cultural sites, learning more about its history of slavery, emancipation, the Maroons, and the forces that shaped modern Jamaica. Those stories deserve more than passing references between beaches and cocktails.

Hire a Local Guide for a Day

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned over the past several years is that guides don’t simply make travel easier. The best ones make it deeper.

Given another chance, I’d hire a local guide—not to shuttle me between attractions, but to help me understand the neighborhoods, the history, and everyday life beyond the resorts.

Those are often the days I remember longest.

Stay Longer

Five days was enough to appreciate Jamaica’s beaches. It wasn’t enough to understand Jamaica.

The island deserves more time than I gave it—not simply to see more places, but to ask better questions, have more conversations, and leave with a fuller picture of the country beyond its extraordinary coastline.

That’s exactly the kind of trip I’d plan next time.

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This was not a trip I planned.

My sister had already organized a Jamaica trip around her calendar and our nephew’s summer plans after his junior year of college. He is our youngest sister’s son, and because we all lost her six years ago, my sister and I sometimes take him on auntie vacations. By the time I decided to join them, the flights, hotels and activities had already been booked. I didn’t want to redesign an itinerary that had been built with someone else in mind.

So I did something I don’t do all that often—or easily: I inserted myself into a trip that had already taken shape without me.

The result was five days split among three luxury resorts: Jamaica Inn in Ocho Rios, Round Hill in Montego Bay, and Rockhouse in Negril. Yes, I said five days and three resorts. Not my idea.

On paper, it was a classic beach vacation. Beautiful rooms and views. Good food. A lot of moving around for such a short trip, but still the kind of easy luxury that tempts you to let the setting remain a backdrop.

I like a beautiful resort as much as anyone. I’m not trying to make a case against a nice beach vacation. But I did find myself wondering whether a short, resort-heavy trip could still be meaningful. Not immersive, obviously. Five days and three hotels is not even enough time for unpacking. But connected to the place in some way beyond the view from the chaise lounge.

I had started “reading Jamaica” as soon as I knew I was going, and I suspect that reading is part of what made the question harder to ignore. I’ve saved most of that for a Literary Itinerary piece. But let’s just say that by the time I arrived, I was primed to notice a little more than just the water and the room categories.

What I kept coming back to in Jamaica was this: even if a beach vacation is never going to be a deep dive into a place, it can still be more than a beautiful escape if you stay curious.

One afternoon at Jamaica Inn, my sister, nephew and I were dining beachside under a row of broad, leafy trees that looked as if nature had conjured them up as beach umbrellas. We asked our waiter, Junior, what kind they were.

“Almond trees,” he said.

We were sure we had misheard him.

Almond trees? On a beach in Jamaica? That did not sound right at all. So after Junior took our order we defaulted to what modern travelers do when confronted with uncertainty: we took a picture and asked ChatGPT.

ChatGPT confidently informed us that the trees were sea grape trees.

A few minutes later, Junior returned carrying a fat yellow fruit. He peeled it back to show us the almond inside. Then he brought us a glass with a single almond for us to try fresh off the tree, not roasted and salted like the ones in a grocery store, but raw and mild and memorable because it came with a story.

Junior, of course, was right. ChatGPT was wrong.

I’ve thought about that moment more than once since coming home, partly because Junior was so earnest and generous in teaching us about the almond tree and partly because it captured the larger point of the trip. It is very easy to move through a resort admiring the beauty around you without actually learning much about where you are. It is even easier to assume that information is interchangeable, that a quick answer from the internet is just as good as a conversation with the person standing in front of you.

But Jamaica became more interesting the minute I stopped treating the setting as scenery and started asking questions about it.

That curiosity stayed with me as I moved from resort to resort.

Jamaica Inn, opened in 1958 and still family-run, felt rooted in a way I appreciated. It had a cozy, old-school Caribbean glamour without fanfare. Round Hill was polished and self-assured, with Ralph Lauren–designed rooms and the kind of legacy glamour that comes from decades of hosting famous guests, including JFK and Jackie on their honeymoon. Rockhouse, perched above the cliffs in Negril, felt different again: dramatic, open to the sea, and a little less sealed off from the world around it, with cliff jumping below and the town of Negril close at hand.

Each resort was beautiful in a different register. But I found myself increasingly interested in questions that had less to do with spa appointments and more to do with the relationship between the resort and Jamaica itself: who owned the hotel, who worked there and in what roles, where the food came from, whether the resort invested in the surrounding community in a way that was specific and visible, and how easy it was to step outside the property and spend money in locally owned shops and restaurants.

By the time I left Round Hill for Rockhouse, I had started voicing some of that curiosity.

My driver, Luke, had worked for Rockhouse for sixteen years. When I asked whether the hotel was locally owned, he said no, then immediately told me about the school Rockhouse supports through its foundation, including a special education program. What stayed with me was not just the answer but the fact that he seemed genuinely proud of it.

That conversation didn’t suddenly make the complexities of tourism disappear, and I’m not naïve enough to think a few good answers from hotel staff amount to a full understanding of Jamaica. They don’t. But they did remind me that even on a short beach trip, there are ways to engage with a place that go beyond passive consumption.

Even on a short beach trip, small acts of curiosity matter: talking with the people you meet, asking what’s growing on the property and where the food comes from, paying attention to who owns the hotel and whether it invests in the surrounding community, and figuring out where to spend money outside the resort bubble. Even reading before you go can matter, if only because it helps you ask better questions once you arrive.

Five days in Jamaica was never going to amount to a deep understanding of the island. It was barely enough time to remember my room number(s). But it was enough to remind me that a beach vacation doesn’t have to be either pure escape or deep immersion. There is a middle ground between those two things, and I’m increasingly interested in it.

The next time I find myself on a white sand beach at a beautiful resort, I’ll still appreciate the room and the view. I’ll also ask a few more questions before I mistake a place for scenery.

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My next vacation is a Caribbean getaway, and I can’t wait. I’ve been picking out flowy dresses and reading about Jamaica, but there is one not-so-fun thing I have learned to include in my vacation planning. Skin preparation.

This article is the second installment of The Traveling Skin Guide, an occasional series exploring how different travel environments affect your skin, with insights from naturopathic physician Dr. Julie Greenberg, founder of Root Cause Dermatology & The Center for Integrative & Naturopathic Dermatology.

As I prepare for a week split between Ocho Rios, Montego Bay, and Negril, I’ve been thinking about skin survival as much as about sightseeing. Not because the Caribbean is harsh in the way Mongolia was. There are no dust storms. No desert air. No relentless wind stripping moisture from your face.

The Caribbean presents a very different challenge: heat, humidity, intense UV exposure, salt water, and mosquitoes. And I have learned the hard way that for those of us with sensitive skin, those factors can combine in surprisingly uncomfortable ways.

I won the college-roommate lottery with a roommate from Puerto Rico, and in my twenties I took advantage of this happy circumstance several times. On one trip, after getting caught in an evening rainstorm, I spent several hours playing cards on a covered porch without bug spray. There may also have been some rum involved. This turned out to be a poor decision.

By the end of the night, I had accumulated more than 200 mosquito bites. I was so swollen, red, and itchy that I could hear locals audibly gasping as I walked down the street the rest of the week. A month later, I was still recovering.

Since then, I’ve become a firm believer that a little preparation is easier than a lot of treatment. So I asked my sister and frequent travel companion, Dr. Greenberg, what travelers should be thinking about before heading to the Caribbean.

Why the Caribbean Is Surprisingly Hard on Your Skin

On paper, the Caribbean sounds ideal. Warm weather. Ocean breezes. Sunshine. But that combination creates its own set of challenges. The biggest factors are surprisingly different from those we discussed in Mongolia.

1. UV Exposure That Feels Better Than It Is

The Caribbean sits much closer to the equator than most North American travelers are accustomed to. UV radiation is intense year-round, and long days spent outside can add up quickly. Ocean breezes and swimming often keep you from feeling hot enough to recognize how much sun you’re getting.

What time of year you travel matters, too. In most destinations, UV radiation is stronger during the summer months, increasing the risk of sunburn and skin damage.

According to Dr. Greenberg: “People often judge sun exposure by temperature. But UV radiation doesn’t care whether you feel hot. Water, sand, and long periods outdoors can dramatically increase cumulative exposure.”

Sunburn is the obvious risk. Less obvious are the effects that show up later: uneven pigmentation, accelerated aging, lingering dark spots, and an increased risk of some skin cancers.

2. Heat and Humidity That Trap Everything Against Your Skin

I’ve made the mistake of imagining humidity as hydrating. My skin disagrees. Sweat, sunscreen, salt, and friction can become trapped against the skin throughout the day, leading to irritation, clogged pores, and heat rash. For me, heat rash tends to appear wherever skin rubs against skin or clothing.

Dr. Greenberg notes: “Heat rash occurs when sweat becomes trapped in blocked sweat ducts. High humidity makes evaporation less efficient, which means the skin stays damp longer and irritation becomes more likely.”

3. Mosquitoes That Leave More Than an Itch

Some people seem naturally invisible to mosquitoes. I am not one of them. Beyond the immediate annoyance, insect bites can create prolonged inflammation, especially for those with sensitive skin.

The itch may disappear in days. The marks can linger for weeks. For some travelers, particularly those prone to pigmentation, the aftermath lasts much longer than the vacation itself.

4. Salt Water, Chlorine, and Constant Exposure

Swimming feels restorative, but my skin doesn’t always agree. Salt water, pool chemicals, wind, and repeated sun exposure can work together to gradually compromise the skin barrier.

Dr. Greenberg explains: “Repeated exposure to salt water and chlorinated pool water can strip away some of the natural oils that help protect the skin. Over time, that can leave skin feeling dry, tight, or irritated.”

Which leads to one of travel’s great contradictions: You can be sweaty and dehydrated at the same time.

5. Air Conditioning That Creates a Second Climate

After spending all day outside, most travelers retreat into aggressively air-conditioned hotel rooms. My skin always notices the transition. Moving repeatedly between tropical humidity and dry indoor air can increase irritation and dehydration, particularly around the eyes and lips.

It’s one reason skin often feels tighter at the end of a beach vacation than it did at the beginning.

What Actually Helps

If Mongolia was about protecting skin from losing moisture, the Caribbean is about protecting it from overload. The goal isn’t a perfect routine. It’s a resilient one.

Prioritize Physical Protection

A wide-brim hat

Sunglasses

UPF clothing or rash guards

Shade during peak sun hours

Physical protection often works better than products alone.

Use (Mineral based) Sunscreen Consistently

This is one environment where diligence matters.

There are two main types of sunscreen: chemical sunscreens and mineral (also called physical) sunscreens. Chemical sunscreens work by absorbing UV radiation and converting it into heat, while mineral sunscreens use ingredients such as zinc oxide and titanium dioxide to help reflect, scatter, and absorb UV rays before they can damage the skin.

Dr. Greenberg generally recommends mineral sunscreens because they tend to be less irritating for sensitive skin and are less likely to cause stinging. Mineral sunscreens also provide broad-spectrum protection immediately upon application and are often well tolerated by individuals with eczema, rosacea, and other inflammatory skin conditions. I’ve made the switch and have found several mineral sunscreens that don’t feel greasy or leave a white paste.

Support the Skin Barrier

Gentle cleanser

Simple moisturizer or body butter

Aloe vera gel

Lip balm

Hydrating serum if needed

Aloe vera gel is a great item to pack for a Caribbean vacation because it can help soothe skin exposed to intense sun, heat, salt water, and chlorine. It can be particularly helpful if you spend a little more time in the sun than you intended.

Avoid experimenting with strong acids, retinoids, or new products during a beach vacation. In a tropical climate, the goal isn’t to do more. It’s to help your skin recover from everything you’ve been throwing at it all day.

Pay Attention to Bug Protection

I am nervously testing whether I can survive without bathing in DEET.

Dr. Greenberg has recommended I try a natural mosquito repellent that is generally made with essential oils. Several plant-based ingredients have been shown to help repel insects, including oil of lemon eucalyptus, citronella, lemongrass, for example. While natural repellents may need to be applied more frequently than conventional products, Dr. Greenberg assures me they can provide effective protection when used properly.

I’m a little nervous about causing Puerto Rico, The Sequel, but I’m trying to avoid chemicals wherever I can. Since Dr. Greenberg and I used to competitively count our bug bites as children on our family Yosemite vacations, I am giving her a fair bit of authority as to what might work for my skin. But I’m also bringing the DEET.

Hydrate Earlier Than You Think You Need To

Heat, humidity, alcohol, sun exposure, and increased activity all contribute to fluid loss. By the time you feel thirsty, you’re already behind.

One thing I’ve learned from writing these guides is that every destination has its own version of “skin stress.” In Mongolia it was dryness. In the Caribbean it’s overload. Different environments. Same lesson: your skin notices where you’ve been.

Caribbean Skin Takeaways

• UV exposure is stronger than it feels.

• Humidity can contribute to heat rash and breakouts.

• Mosquito bites often linger longer than expected.

• Salt water and chlorine can disrupt the skin barrier.

• Air conditioning can leave skin surprisingly dehydrated.

• Simple routines work best.

About This Series

The Traveling Skin Guide is an occasional series exploring how different travel environments affect your skin—and what you can realistically do about it.

Because sometimes the difference between a great trip and a slightly uncomfortable one isn’t where you go.

It’s how well you prepare for what the environment does to you while you’re there.

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If you’d like to follow along between essays, I share more thoughts, photos, and trip moments on Instagram @TriciaGlobalTravel.

Some links in this piece may be affiliate links. I only share products I genuinely use and like.

When I traveled with my sister to Rwanda in 2023, we traveled in luxury the likes of which I’d never experienced.

Business class seats. A greeter to usher us through immigration and collect our bags while we sipped welcome cocktails. A private driver throughout the trip. The finest lodges Rwanda had to offer.

We spared no expense for a reason.

The trip was meant to honor our youngest sister, who would have turned fifty that week. She loved first-class everything. At every beautiful lodge and every elegant meal, we talked about what she would have thought. How she would have approved of the linens, the menu choices, and being waited on hand and foot.

When the gorillas finally came into view through the mist, I felt, for just a moment, as though she were there with us.

Looking back, I think that was the first time I consciously built a trip around meaning rather than logistics. We weren’t simply visiting Rwanda. We were honoring someone we loved.

The gorillas were extraordinary. The lodges were beautiful. What I remember most though is the feeling that my sister somehow traveled alongside us. That trip changed something for me.

I learned some important lessons from Rwanda, and one of them came from understanding why luxury mattered so much to my sister.

She had multiple sclerosis. As the disease progressed, things many travelers take for granted became harder. Long walks through airports. Carrying luggage. Enduring uncomfortable flights. Navigating hotels that weren’t designed for physical limitations.

For her, comfort wasn’t (just) indulgence. It was access. Comfortable seats on long-haul flights, help with bags, and hotels that accommodated her physical needs allowed her to arrive with enough energy to experience the places she had worked so hard to see. In retrospect I hadn’t really appreciated this at the time.

But now I get it. Comfort and meaningful travel are not opposites. Sometimes comfort is what makes meaningful travel possible.

My trip earlier this year to Mongolia reinforced what Rwanda first taught me. Better travel isn’t necessarily more luxurious, more adventurous, or more expensive. It’s the difference between seeing a place and understanding it. It’s about building relationships and allowing a destination to change the way you think.

For much of my life, I thought better travel meant traveling farther, cheaper, longer, and more often. I measured trips by what I accomplished: countries, attractions, miles.

Somewhere between raising children, losing people I loved, accumulating a few injuries of my own, and becoming an empty nester, my definition changed.

The questions I ask now are different. Did I learn something? Did I connect with people? Did I come home seeing the world differently than when I left? Did the trip reflect what matters to me now?

Better travel is going to mean something different for each of us. I’m not trying to offer a universal definition.

But after more than fifty countries and decades of travel, I’ve finally figured out what it means to me.

Better Travel Honors the Life I’m Actually Living

When I was twenty-five, flexibility was both a virtue and a given. I could sleep anywhere, take three flights to save a few hundred dollars, and walk twelve miles through a city without thinking about how my body might feel the next day.

At fifty-six, flexibility is still useful. But so is realism. Realism about the fact that I have a bad knee, a bad back, and enough old injuries to know exactly what happens when I ignore them. Realism about the fact that arriving exhausted doesn’t make a trip more authentic (or fun). And recognition that I don’t have anything left to prove.

I used to pride myself on travel being a test of endurance. Now I think it’s an opportunity for presence. A comfortable flight. A well-located hotel. A guide who handles the logistics. These things don’t diminish the experience. They allow me to be fully present for it.

Better Travel Values Time as Much as Money

When I was younger, money was scarce and time felt infinite. I assumed I would eventually get around to everything—-and that there would be a better time for travel. There would be time for Rwanda. Time for Mongolia. Time for Brazil. Time for all the places that seemed impossibly far away.

Age has a way of challenging that assumption. I realize there may never be a better time than now.

Losing people you love reminds you that time is not promised. Becoming an empty nester reminds you how quickly entire chapters of life can pass.

One day you’re planning vacations around school calendars and soccer schedules. The next, your children are grown and building lives of their own. Literally! As I’m writing this, my eldest’s college graduation is two days away.

I embrace the freedom that comes with this stage of life. But I’m more aware now that opportunities have seasons. Some trips are easier to take while your body is strong. Some adventures make sense only when your children are young. Some journeys carry meaning because of who is still here to take them with you.

I don’t travel because I’m afraid of missing out.

I travel because I understand more clearly than I once did that some seasons do not come twice.

Better Travel Seeks Depth Instead of Accumulation

For years, I approached travel the way many ambitious, Type A, competitive people do.

More countries.

More sights.

More experiences.

Just more.

These days, I find myself wanting less (or fewer for those of us grammar sticklers).

Fewer destinations with longer stays. Fewer crowds in shoulder season travel.

Mongolia was a perfect example. The highlights of the trip were not the places I had circled on a map before I arrived. They were the moments I could never have planned.

Sharing a meal with an eagle hunter and his family. Taking turns learning archery from a father and son and laughing at our guide’s terrible aim that almost struck the son with her arrow. Sitting inside a ger listening to stories about a way of life I barely understood before I arrived.

None of those moments were on a checklist. But they’re what I remember.

I used to travel to see places. More and more, I travel to understand them.

Better Travel Helps Me Understand a Place Before I Arrive

For me, one of the greatest joys of travel is discovering that a place is more complicated than I imagined.

Reading helps me arrive prepared for that discovery.

When I visited Greece on my first trip abroad at age twelve, I arrived already carrying stories from mythology. Before visiting Rome, I arrived with stories about centuries of history.

Before traveling to Jamaica this summer, I’ve been reading Jamaican authors and learning about the island’s history long before my plane touches down.

Reading doesn’t make travel less surprising. It makes the surprises richer.

The more context I bring with me, the more I notice once I’m there. Travel begins long before I board a plane. And the best trips continue long after I return home.

Better Travel Connects Me to People

The older I get, the more convinced I become that people are the destination.

Landscapes, wildlife, architecture all matter. But people are what stay with me. Genuine human connection reminds me how much we all share despite our differences.

Some of my strongest memories from Mongolia involve laughter about surprisingly intimate stories that were shared. Unplanned moments where a family spontaneously welcomed us into their home. Conversations that required translation but somehow communicated far more than words alone.

Those moments didn’t happen because I stumbled upon them. They happened because local guides, local relationships, and local trust opened doors I never would have known to knock on.

The farther I travel, the more interested I become in humanity.

Better Travel Leaves Something Behind

For years, I approached travel with curiosity about what I could get out of it. What can I see? What can I experience? What can I learn? Those questions still matter.

But lately I’ve been learning to ask another one. Who benefits when I visit? Local guides or lodge owners? Locally owned lodges or conglomerate hotels? Conservation efforts? Community-based tourism?

Are the businesses who are getting my money keeping those tourism dollars in the places I have come to enjoy?

Travel will always involve consumption. We are visitors, after all. But I want my presence to contribute something positive whenever possible.

Not because travel is a moral purity test. It isn’t. But because travel works best when the benefits flow both ways.

Perhaps that’s what I mean most when I talk about better travel. Not better in the sense of more expensive, more adventurous or even more comfortable.

Better because I come home with stories. I remember the people. The trip becomes part of my story.

At twenty-five, I wanted freedom. At fifty-six, I want meaning.

And for me, that’s what better travel looks like.

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If you’d like to follow along between essays, I share more thoughts, photos and trip moments on Instagram @TriciaGlobalTravel.

When my kids were in elementary school, we tagged along with my husband on a work trip to Barcelona. I planned it the way I’d planned trips for years: flights booked, Airbnb reserved in the heart of the Gothic Quarter, and the confidence that as an experienced traveler I’d figure out the rest as I went.

Except it was August. The city was hot and crowded. The Gothic Quarter may have been in the center of everything, but I hadn’t counted on the all-night partying happening right outside our apartment. The air conditioning barely worked, and the landlord was unhelpful to the point the kids dubbed him “angry bull.”. We all struggled with the time change. Getting everyone out the door before early afternoon felt nearly impossible, which meant we arrived just as the lines for everything were at their longest.

The kids were tired, cranky, and entirely unimpressed by my plans to spend a sweltering afternoon touring Gaudí buildings or visiting the Picasso Museum. It was a humbling trip.

I realized that several of the travel rules I’d carried around for years weren’t actually rules at all. They were assumptions that had worked for a younger, solo traveling version of me.

“Stay in the center of everything.”

“You don’t need a guide.”

“Avoid the touristy places.”

“Real travelers don’t need much of an itinerary.”

Somewhere between sweating through crowded afternoons and listening to revelers outside our window at 3:00 a.m., I realized those ideas didn’t work nearly as well when traveling with a family.

At the time, I assumed I’d simply learned a few lessons about traveling with children.

Years later, I realized something bigger had happened. The travel rules I thought were universal had simply stopped fitting the life I was living.

These days I travel mostly with my husband, sister, or friends. I’m over 50, and I’ve come to realize that good travel advice often has an expiration date. What serves you at 25 may not serve you at 55. Or 56. What works on one trip may fail spectacularly on the next.

After more than 50 countries, plenty of mistakes, and more than a few things I’d do over, I’ve become suspicious of travel advice presented as universal truth.

Here are a few pieces of travel advice I no longer follow.

1. “See as much as possible.”

I travel to some pretty far-flung places these days, and I wonder if I’ll have the chance to get back. I really have to fight the urge to load up the itinerary like it’s my only chance to see a place.

Which is why I agreed to an itinerary in India that had us waking up at 3:30 or 4:00 a.m. on an almost daily basis–the Taj Mahal at sunrise, the flower market at sunrise, the early flight to Cochin with connection via , the safari drive at sunrise. I wanted to see it all. By the end of the trip we were exhausted.

I now realize that doing it all comes at a price, and it’s a price I’m increasingly disinclined to pay. I want to feel good when I travel. And I’ve learned that soulful depth makes me feel better than harried breadth.

2. “Avoid touristy places.”

Can we all agree to stop apologizing for wanting to see the famous things? Some of the most powerful sights I’ve seen could be characterized as touristy. The Taj Mahal. The mountain gorillas of Rwanda. Chichén Itzá.

Sometimes the famous thing is the reason you got on the plane in the first place. Crowds don’t invalidate significance.

Personally I like to mix the touristy things with other things. Time to wander the streets of Porto. Time to sit with a Nomadic family in Mongolia and drink milk tea or to have a drink with my guide at the end of a long day. But that doesn’t necessitate giving up the landmarks.

3. “You don’t need a guide.”

Part of the thrill used to be figuring it out as I went. I still get that feeling when I wander the streets of Tokyo without an agenda. But not every destination lends itself to winging it.

I’ve learned that there are places where a guide is much more than transportation or interpretation. In Mongolia, our guide was access.

We visited a classroom in the Gobi Desert because a teacher friend told our guide to stop by. We spent time with the director of Mongolia’s paleontology institute because he was a friend of our guide. Neither experience was listed in a guidebook.

I used to think hiring a guide meant giving something up. But sometimes it can be the thing that makes an experience richer.

4. “Real travelers travel cheaply.”

Another thing I refuse to apologize for is comfort. It’s not a character flaw to prioritize arriving rested and without the aches and pains of middle age or an autoimmune disease. So yes, I personally prioritize a lie-flat seat for long haul flights and minimal connections.

There was a time when I’d gladly take three connections and a red-eye to save a few hundred dollars. These days I’d rather arrive with enough energy to enjoy the trip I worked so hard to take.

Age changes priorities. I’m going to make the most of the time I have to travel.

5. “Travel should push you outside your comfort zone.”

This one is nuanced. I don’t reject hardship. I reject discomfort as a goal in itself.

My recent trip to Mongolia was a perfect example of this.

Somewhere along the way, travel culture started treating discomfort as proof that an experience was authentic.

I’ve stopped believing that. The goal is connection, not hardship.

If sleeping in a ger (or yurt) helps me understand Mongolia, I’m interested. If foregoing indoor plumbing simply makes me cold and tired, I’m not sure what I’m proving.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that most travel advice isn’t wrong. It’s just incomplete.

The best travel decisions depend on who you are, where you are in life, and what you’re hoping to get out of the experience.

I’ve stopped worrying about whether I’m traveling the “right” way.

I’m more interested in whether I’m having the trip I actually want. And I’ve finally stopped apologizing for that.

What travel advice have you learned to ignore?

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After sixteen days in Mongolia—multiple flights, hundreds of miles of dirt roads, several ger camps, countless cups of milk tea, and more conversations than I expected—here’s my verdict.

As always, these aren’t rankings of the country’s most famous attractions. They’re simply the things that felt most worthwhile—and the few things I’d think differently about if I were planning the trip again.

Worth It

1. Having a Full-Time Guide

This is my biggest Mongolia takeaway.

When I first learned that our guide, Undrakh, would be with us for the entire sixteen-day trip, I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it. My sister and I have traveled extensively and generally prefer a fair amount of independence. I assumed we’d have local guides rotating in and out depending on where we were.

Instead, we had one guide for the entire journey. By the end of the trip, I couldn’t imagine experiencing Mongolia any other way.

Without Undrakh, our guide, we wouldn’t have visited classrooms. We wouldn’t have had spontaneous conversations with families. We wouldn’t have understood many of the cultural nuances that transformed what we were seeing from scenery into something meaningful. We certainly wouldn’t have developed the relationships that ultimately became the most memorable part of the trip.

There was also the practical reality. Mongolia is one of the least densely populated countries on earth. Some of the roads we traveled weren’t roads in any conventional sense. They were tracks across the landscape, branching and rejoining through the Gobi Desert and mountain valleys. Navigating them without a local driver would have ranged from difficult to impossible.

I arrived thinking a guide was a luxury. I left thinking it was essential. You can read more about that here.

2. Staying at Three Camel Lodge

Three Camel Lodge was easily the most impressive accommodation of the trip.

Part of that was comfort. After long days exploring the Gobi Desert, a beautiful lodge with excellent food and thoughtful hospitality is hard not to appreciate.

But what made the experience memorable was that the lodge itself became part of the story.

We toured the greenhouse. We learned about their sustainability initiatives. We saw how tourism revenue supports local jobs and conservation efforts. We participated in a cooking lesson and an archery lesson. Everywhere we looked there seemed to be evidence of intentional choices about how tourism could coexist with environmental stewardship.

The views across the Gobi are spectacular.

Few hotels become destinations in their own right. This one did.

If you’re interested in more detail, I’ve written a separate bonus article for my paid subscribers about our stay there, including the Bankhar dog program, sustainability initiatives, and some of my favorite experiences with the staff.

3. Visiting Multiple Nomadic Families

One of the biggest lessons Mongolia taught me is that There Is No Single Version of Nomadic Life.

Before arriving, I suspect I carried a somewhat romanticized image of what a nomadic family might look like. The reality was far more interesting.

We met eagle hunters, herders, teachers, performers, children, grandparents, and families navigating the same tensions that exist everywhere: tradition and modernization, preservation and adaptation, old ways and new opportunities.

Some families lived more traditionally. Others embraced modern technology while maintaining longstanding cultural practices. Most seemed to exist somewhere in between.

The more families we visited, the harder it became to hold onto any simplistic narrative about Mongolia. That’s exactly why it was worth it.

4. Visiting an Eagle Hunter

Our visit with Shamurat, a three-time national eagle hunting champion, was one of the highlights of the trip.

Part of the experience involved elements clearly designed for visitors. We tried on traditional equipment. We held an eaglet. We took photographs. We shared a traditional Mongolian meal.

Yet what stayed with me was the conversation. We learned about the history of eagle hunting, the training process, the relationship between hunter and eagle, and the efforts being made to preserve a tradition that is becoming increasingly rare.

A visit to the local Eagle Hunter Cultural Center added additional context, helping us understand both the significance of the practice and the challenges involved in keeping it alive. Tourism and cultural preservation can exist in tension with one another. In this case, they also seemed to support one another.

5. The Cultural Performances

This is exactly the kind of experience I might have dismissed before the trip. Children performed traditional dances. Family members demonstrated archery. We watched horseback skills and rode camels. There was even a boombox.

At first glance, it would be easy to categorize the experience as something staged for tourists. But that framing increasingly felt inadequate.

The children were genuinely talented. The skills being demonstrated were real. The traditions were meaningful. The fact that modern technology was present didn’t somehow erase the cultural significance of what we were seeing.

Mongolia repeatedly challenged my tendency to place experiences into neat categories of authentic or inauthentic. Life is usually more complicated than that.

6. Reading Before the Trip

I have become increasingly convinced that one of the best ways to enrich a destination is to read before you arrive. Mongolia was no exception.

The books I read beforehand provided context for the landscape, Chinggis Khan’s legacy, Mongolia’s place in world history, and the realities of contemporary life.

The result wasn’t just that I understood Mongolia before arriving—something that feels essential to me. The result was that I noticed more once I got there.

A good book won’t replace experience. But it can help you recognize what you’re experiencing. I wrote an article about this for my other newsletter, The Literary Itinerary, if you’re interested in exploring this idea.

7. Shoulder Season Travel

We traveled in May. The weather wasn’t perfect every day. There were occasional cold mornings and a few windy stretches. There was even a snowstorm and power outage.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat. There were moments when it felt like we had entire landscapes to ourselves. Camps were quieter. Trails were less crowded. The sense of vastness that defines Mongolia felt even more pronounced.

Mongolia reminded me that remote and empty are not the same thing.

8. Staying in Gers

The ger camps were not the most luxurious accommodations of the trip. That’s precisely why they were worth it. Staying in a ger taught us small things: how to enter respectfully, where to sit, how the space is organized, and how daily life functions inside a structure that has been used for centuries.

One important caveat: given the choice, I’ll take a ger with a private bathroom over absolute authenticity every single time. Cultural immersion and indoor plumbing can coexist quite nicely.

It also provided perspective. Hotels can tell you about tourism. Gers tell you something about the people who live there. Many of my strongest memories of Mongolia happened inside them.

Do Over

1. Better Documentation of People’s Stories

I came home with hundreds of photographs. Most of them are landscapes. What I wish I had more of are notes. The teacher we met. The eagle hunter. The herders. Our drivers. The families who welcomed us into their homes.

Not because every interaction needs to become content, but because people fade from memory faster than mountains. The landscapes were extraordinary. The people were what made the trip meaningful.

2. Spend Less Time Worrying About What’s “Authentic”

This became an unexpected theme throughout the trip. More than once, I found myself wondering whether an experience was too touristy. More than once, I eventually concluded that I was asking the wrong question.

The family performances were a perfect example. Yes, they were presented for visitors. They were also genuine expressions of skill, tradition, and cultural pride. Those things are not mutually exclusive.

Travel became more rewarding once I stopped trying to sort every experience into rigid categories and simply paid attention to what I was learning.

3. The Food

Mongolia is not generally considered a culinary destination. For someone whose diet ranges from vegan to pescatarian, that reality was particularly noticeable.

Meat plays a central role in Mongolian cuisine. Mutton, horse meat, and other animal products that are uncommon in many Western diets are widely consumed. Dairy appears in forms that can be unfamiliar to visitors, including products made from horse, yak, and camel milk. Fresh vegetables can be limited, particularly in remote areas.

Traditional Mongolian food evolved to meet the demands of climate, geography, and survival. It makes perfect sense in its context. But if food is one of the primary reasons you travel, Mongolia may not be the destination that stays with you for its cuisine.

For me, the memories are of the people, the landscapes, and the conversations.

And that was more than enough.

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When I booked Three Cam…

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I opened the bottle and sniffed once in each nostril. Then I carefully handed it back, extending my right hand while supporting my elbow with my left. We didn’t have our own snuff bottles, but this exchange was one of several rituals repeated in every nomadic home we visited in Mongolia.

The snuff bottle came first. Then milk tea. Warm. Salty. Made from whatever herd animals the family. Always accompanied by curds and small sweets laid out on a low table.

Five visits. Five homes. And after those opening moments, almost everything else was different.

One family in western Mongolia lived in a house rather than a ger and kept all five major herd animals traditionally raised in Mongolia: cattle, horses, camels, sheep, goats. Their youngest son, fifteen, was still at home.

After the traditional welcome and chat, he and his father stepped outside to demonstrate their family’s style of competition archery using fat, blunt-tipped arrows designed to strike homemade leather targets hard enough to knock them backward past a dirt mound. Afterward, his father handed me the bow and gave me a quick lesson.

The father and son next demonstrated a traditional horseback game in which riders wrestle for possession of a goat hide, leaning impossibly far from the saddle without falling.

Next door lived the father’s brother with his family, including five young children. Because we were their first foreign visitors of the season, the children had remained home from school and prepared something.

They emerged shyly from the neighboring house in ceremonial dress and carried out an old boombox. Traditional music crackled to life. Against the open backdrop of the mountains, they performed several dances, including the two-year-old, who tried to follow her older siblings while watching us carefully for our reactions. The eldest daughter wore a cornflower blue silk dress, white tights and black shoes and carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew she belonged at center stage.

After several songs, the children waved us up to join them. Soon everyone was dancing together. It was joyous.

The moment stayed with me because it resisted simplistic categories. It would have been easy to dismiss the performance as something done for tourists or, just as wrongly, to imagine that “real” nomadic life should look untouched by visitors–in fact, hospitality is deeply embedded in Mongolian culture.

Rather, this moment felt closer to what many of us do when guests come to our homes: clean up, bring out something special, introduce our children, share traditions we’re proud of, and linger together a little longer seeking moments of connection. The performance wasn’t an attempt to recreate some untouched past. It was a family deciding how they wanted to welcome strangers into their world.

The boombox and even the preparation didn’t make the moment less authentic. If anything, it made it more recognizable.

In our first few visits, the mix of modern and traditional details we encountered felt contradictory. But I soon realized I had been treating nomadic life as an aesthetic rather than a relationship. Once I stopped trying to sort each family into categories of “traditional” or “modern,” the differences between them started to feel less surprising and more revealing.

One family lived in a pristine ger in the Gobi, so spotless I quietly asked whether it was their actual home or a demonstration space for tourists. It was their home.

Another family lived in a two-story wooden house.

Several had motorcycles parked outside. One had power lines running nearby. Yet inside many homes, the symbols of status looked strikingly similar: championship medals hanging on the walls for herding, dairy production, eagle hunting, and Naadam competitions.

What counted as prestige varied surprisingly little from family to family. Modernity had arrived, but status was deeply tied to skill with animals, land, and tradition.

One household had a television, refrigerator, generator, cell phones, and a washing machine. They all moved seasonally between locations. All identified as herders. Before arriving in Mongolia, I had unconsciously imagined nomadic life as a single image: one family, one ger, one way of living. Instead, I found variation.

A horse-herding family near Kharkhorin lived close enough to town to ride motorcycles to market for vegetables and supplies. The wife wore a black Tommy Hilfiger tracksuit beneath her red silk deel. Their home had family photographs, carpets, and carefully arranged shelves—but outside were horses, livestock pens built from cut timber, and preparations for seasonal movement.

Their daughter was eighteen. They hoped she would become educated and choose her own path. That balance between continuity and adaptation appeared again and again.

Another family in western Mongolia hunted with eagles and also raised livestock. Their children and grandchildren gathered in the two-story home that reflected the success of its owner and our host, Shamurat, a renowned three-time national eagle hunting champion who has been featured in the Smithsonian among other places.

We met his eaglet, born last July. Unlike some eagle hunters who primarily pose for photographs with visitors, Shamurat stills hunts with his eagles during winter. The eagles help provide food for the family and pelts that can be used or sold. Although he is renowned for training eagles, he does not keep them for life. When they reach breeding age—typically around four years old—he releases them back into the wild.

Shamurat’s wife prepared a lunchtime feast called beshbarmak-–a platter of boiled mutton topped with potatoes and broad flat noodles rolled with minced vegetables. The dish is a hospitality dish served to honored guests and associated with celebration and gathering. The meal was served without utensils. Shamurat alone wielded a sharp knife, which he used to slice the meat from the bones.

After lunch Shamurat showed us the parts of eagle hunting life that visitors come to see. He posed with his eagle. We tried on the heavy wolfskin coat and thick leather glove used for handling the birds.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would never choose to wear animal fur. But standing in western Mongolia, where winter temperatures routinely plunge far below zero, the coat registered less as fashion than as survival technology.

And while I still would never wear fur at home, Mongolia kept forcing me to reconsider my assumption and to confront the difference between consumption and necessity..

The common thread wasn’t that everyone lived in the same structure or rejected modern conveniences. It was movement. It was organizing life around animals, weather, and seasons. That realization provided context for the question we kept hearing: How many seasons do you have? That question, which had felt unexpected at first, started to make sense. If your livelihood depends on weather, that may be one of the most practical questions you can ask another person.

Once I stopped expecting nomadic life to look frozen in time, modern details stopped clashing. They simply looked practical. Motorcycles shortened distances. Generators powered appliances. Mobile phones connected people. Infrastructure and public support in some regions—including wells and assistance during difficult winters—help make herding more viable.

And why shouldn’t they? We don’t expect people living in cities to give up electricity or refrigeration to preserve a more authentic version of modern life. It felt strange to expect nomadic families to reject convenience in order to preserve our idea of tradition.

That didn’t mean traditions had disappeared. Every family welcomed us. Every family served milk tea. Seasonal movement remained. Animals still structured daily life. People still talked about weather with the seriousness most of us reserve for work calendars.

Traditions survived—not because nothing changed, but because families decided which parts still mattered. And the longer we traveled, the less those juxtapositions felt contradictory.

As we left one visit, I looked back. There was a motorcycle outside. Power lines in the distance. Animals grazing. And a ger standing quietly beside it all.

From far away, it looked modern and ancient at once. Up close, it simply looked like life.

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At first I was a little taken aback.

When Undrakh met us at the airport, she introduced herself and explained that she would be accompanying us throughout the trip.

Not just into the city. Not just for a few excursions.

The entire sixteen days.

To be clear, any surprise was entirely my own fault. I had a detailed itinerary—and I had participated fully in its creation. It clearly stated what was included and what was not. It explicitly included a guide. I had simply assumed that meant a series of local guides rotating in and out depending on where we were.

Instead, we had Undrakh.

My sister and I have traveled extensively and generally prefer a fair amount of independence. Between us, we’ve visited more than 75 countries. We know how to adapt when plans change and entertain ourselves perfectly well. I worried that having someone with us every day might feel less like freedom and more like being overmanaged.

What I did not yet understand was that the real luxury of a well-designed trip is not merely that someone makes things easier but rather than that they make them deeper.

If you’ve been reading along with me for a while, you know my feelings about travel planning have evolved over time. Some destinations reward spontaneity. Others reward strategy. Some are best discovered independently. Others become immeasurably richer through expertise and access.

Mongolia, I realized quickly, belonged firmly in the latter category.

Through the people whom we encountered, Mongolia stopped feeling like scenery and started feeling personal.

Undrakh and her colleagues did not simply move us efficiently through the country. They turned logistics into access.

One afternoon in the Gobi, Undrakh mentioned that a friend of hers taught third grade at a local school. Would we like to stop by the next day?

Without her, we would never even have known the school existed. We might have stopped in the tiny town for a picture, bought a snack, and continued on.

Instead, we found ourselves inside a classroom.

The school served children from a wide surrounding region. Some students came from nomadic families and stayed in dormitories during the week so they could attend classes consistently before returning home.

Mongolia’s literacy rate is among the highest in the world. But statistics become more interesting when you are sitting inside a classroom in the Gobi watching third graders—some still in gym clothes and others in their blue uniforms—perform songs they had prepared for visitors they do not normally receive.

The children asked us questions about our hobbies, our pets, and what we had wanted to be when we were young.

One brave boy raised his hand and asked in careful English: “How old are you?” It would have been easy to describe this as a charming travel moment.

But what stayed with me was something larger: this was the Mongolia we repeatedly gained access to because someone connected us not merely to places, but to people.

That happened again and again throughout the trip.

Undrakh shared stories from her own life—balancing guiding tours with raising three young children, relying on grandparents and extended family, and laughing that uninterrupted nights of sleep while traveling sometimes felt luxurious.

As another mother whose career required travel while my children were young—and who also knew how to appreciate the bliss of a quiet hotel night, I recognized something kindred in her immediately.

She also shared stories that shaded in Mongolia better than any museum placard could.

Once, while guiding a group in a remote area, she came across an unlocked ger. No one was home, but in nomadic culture that is not necessarily unusual. Gers are often left accessible in case someone needs shelter or supplies.

Her group borrowed bowls to cook dinner and camped outside overnight when the family never returned. As we talked through the story, the question arose as to whether one leaves something behind in such a situation. She thought for a moment and said she probably would.

That single story explained more to me about Mongolian hospitality than pages of cultural background ever could.

Undrakh was not the only person we met along the way who shared personal stories that unlocked Mongolia for us.

So did our conversations with Buya, the manager of one of the lodges where we stayed in the Gobi.

His family had remained nomadic until a devastating zud in the early 2000s forced change. A zud is a severe winter disaster that can combine extreme cold, snow, ice, drought, or lack of grazing—conditions that can devastate livestock.

Buya still recalled watching in horror as animals froze where they stood. His family moved to Ulaanbaatar that spring, where his father—previously a veterinarian—struggled to find equivalent work and took construction jobs instead.

Yet the story was not simply one of loss. Every summer, Buya returned to help relatives herd livestock.

As a child, he competed in Naadam horse races, riding for two days to reach national competitions across the steppe.

Again and again in Mongolia, I found a country not frozen in tradition but actively negotiating which parts of its past to carry forward. And I realized something else too. The itinerary itself—excellent as it was—was only part of what made this trip work so well.

Yes, everything flowed beautifully. Camps appeared exactly when they should. Long drives were broken intelligently. The pacing accounted for weather, fatigue, and geography in ways I never could have orchestrated remotely.

Then Mongolia reminded us that even the best plans only go so far. A late May snowstorm in western Mongolia brought power outages and blocked roads.

Undrakh and our local Kazakh driver quickly found us a hotel with a generator for heat and tracked down the one restaurant in town still able to serve food, provide light, and offer Wi-Fi. Undrakh even loaned us her own extra snow pants and heavy jackets because my sister and I hadn’t packed for such extreme conditions.

But the moment I remember most from the storm happened the next morning. Power was still out. The coffee shop planned to open late.

With about ten minutes’ notice, our driver’s family invited us into their home for breakfast. His wife conjured a feast: homemade bread, butter, curds, eggs, fresh and dried fruit, vegetables, milk tea, coffee, and Tashkent tea. It was spontaneous and generous and entirely unnecessary. And in that moment I realized something.

The real luxury of the trip was never that someone knew where we were supposed to sleep or what road to take. It was that people kept opening doors we never would have thought to knock on.

As experiences like these unfolded, I realized that while a guide and driver were essential for navigating the vast, unmarked roads and extreme conditions of the Gobi and Western Mongolia, their real value was not logistical. It was human.

What initially felt like too much structure turned out to be something entirely different: access to conversations, stories, and layers of Mongolia we never would have encountered on our own.

Not because independent travel is lesser.

But because some places are experienced most fully not through total independence, but through trusted interpretation and relationship.

We arrived with an itinerary.

We left remembering mostly the people.

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This article launches The Traveling Skin Guide, an occasional series exploring how different travel environments affect your skin, with insights from naturopathic physician Dr. Julie Greenberg, founder of Root Cause Dermatology & The Center for Integrative & Naturopathic Dermatology.

As I planned this trip to Mongolia—moving across the steppe, staying in remote ger camps, spending long days outside with very little separation between me and the elements—I started to wonder what this kind of environment actually does to your skin.

Because this isn’t a city trip where you can pop back into your hotel, reapply, reset, and head back out.

This is days outside. Wind that doesn’t really stop. Air that holds almost no moisture. And a rhythm that leaves very little room for a 10-step routine for skin that is so dry it’s one missed beauty step away from molting.

So I asked my travel partner and sister—who also happens to be naturopathic physician Dr. Julie Greenberg—what I should actually be thinking about before I go.

Why Mongolia Is Surprisingly Hard on Your Skin

On paper, Mongolia doesn’t sound extreme–at least for your skin–in the way some destinations do.

It’s not tropical. It’s not humid. It’s not relentlessly hot. But that’s exactly what makes it deceptive.

The combination of dry air, constant wind, high UV exposure, and big temperature swings creates a kind of slow, cumulative stress on the skin barrier—one that you may not notice immediately, but will feel a few days in.

Here are the biggest factors.

1. Dry Air That Doesn’t Let Up

Mongolia’s climate is defined by low humidity, especially across the steppe and in the Gobi. There’s very little moisture in the air—and your skin notices.

The Gobi can be deceptive because it’s a rain shadow desert but it’s a desert nonetheless. A desert is defined by its very low precipitation, typically receiving less than 10 inches of rain, snow, or mist per year. Because of this chronic moisture deficit, water can evaporate more quickly than it can be replenished.

Low humidity increases transepidermal water loss, meaning your skin is constantly losing hydration to the environment.

You may not feel it right away. But over a few days, it tends to show up as:

• Tightness

• Dullness

• Increased sensitivity

Dr. Greenberg explains “Dry air doesn’t just make your skin feel tight—it actively pulls moisture out faster than your skin can replace it. If you have healthy skin, this can cause wrinkles and cracking. But if you already have eczema or another skin condition, it can cause flares and serious exacerbations.”

The kind of dryness that isn’t solved with one good moisturizer—it’s ongoing. This happens to me all the time because we frequent Bend, Oregon, where similar factors affect my skin.

2. Wind That Becomes Part of the Experience

Looking at my itinerary, there are long stretches where we’re outside moving through wide, open landscapes—drives across the steppe, time on horseback or camels, evenings spent outside camp.

What you don’t see on paper is the wind.

In Mongolia, wind isn’t a moment. It’s a condition.

And according to Dr. Greenberg, that matters: “Wind accelerates moisture loss and can disrupt the skin barrier, especially with prolonged exposure. But it’s not just drying—the constant movement of air across the skin creates a kind of low-grade friction, which can leave skin feeling raw, chapped, and more reactive.”

It’s not just drying—it’s physically irritating. Over time, that can lead to chapping, redness, and skin that feels more reactive than usual.

3. Sun Exposure That Doesn’t Feel Like Sun Exposure

This is the part I would have underestimated.

Mongolia often feels cool—sometimes even cold—especially in the mornings and evenings. But much of the country sits at elevation, where UV exposure is stronger. Add in long days outside and reflective surfaces like pale earth and sand, and it adds up quickly.

“People tend to underestimate UV exposure in cooler climates,” Dr. Greenberg told me. “But altitude and time spent outdoors both increase total exposure—and UV radiation can still reach your skin even when it’s cloudy or the sun doesn’t feel strong.”

In other words: just because you’re not sweating doesn’t mean your skin isn’t taking in the rays.

4. Temperature Swings That Keep Your Skin Guessing

One of the things that stood out most as I reviewed our plans was how quickly temperatures can shift.

Warm afternoons. Cold nights. Sometimes a dramatic drop within hours.This is as much a nightmare for your skin as it is for your packing efforts.

Your skin is constantly trying to recalibrate. And that repeated adjustment can lead to:

• Increased dryness

• Sensitivity

• A feeling that your skin just isn’t as resilient as usual

5. A Routine That Has to Travel With You

This may be the biggest shift.

In Mongolia, you don’t really “return” to your routine at the end of the day in the same way. You’re in it.

Days are long. Locations are remote. And whatever you bring has to work without ideal conditions—or much time. Which means the question becomes less about what’s ideal, and more about what’s essential.

What Actually Helps

If there’s a theme here, it’s this: simplify and protect.

This isn’t the environment to try something new or optimize your routine. It’s about giving your skin what it needs to hold up over multiple days of exposure.

Here’s what Dr. Greenberg recommends—and what I’ll actually be bringing.

Prioritize Physical Protection

This is less about skincare—and more about what you wear.

• A wide-brim hat to protect face and lips

• A scarf or buff for wind

• Sunglasses for both UV and irritation

It’s not just comfort. It’s prevention.

Use a Mineral Sunscreen (Even When It Feels Unnecessary)

This is where perception can work against you.

Cool air + wind = you don’t feel the sun. But it’s still there. Mineral sunscreen for the face and body creates a physical barrier against UV and tends to be better tolerated in dry, sensitive conditions. I like the tinted kind for my face.

The key is consistency—not intensity.

Focus on Supporting the Skin Barrier

This comes up again and again in my conversations with Dr. Greenberg.

“Supporting the skin barrier is the priority in environments like this. Once it’s compromised, everything feels harder.”

That means:

• Gentle cleansing

• Aloe or a simple hydrating face serum face serum:

• A reliable moisturizer (barrier-supporting, 100% natural origin), preferably thicker body butter for the body (lotion is too thin)

• Lip balm

• Avoiding new or aggressive products

• Avoiding products with fragrance or chemicals

Simple, consistent, repeatable.

Pay Attention to the Details You Usually Ignore

One of the things I’ve learned from travel is that discomfort rarely comes from the big things—it’s the small ones you didn’t plan for.

In dry, windy environments, that often includes:

• Lips that crack quickly

• Eyes that feel dry and irritated

• Nasal passages that don’t tolerate the dryness well

• Saline nasal spray to prevent bloody noses

These aren’t dramatic problems. But over multiple days, they matter.

Hydrate (Earlier Than You Think You Need To)

This is the advice I always know—and am the worst at following.

Dry air increases fluid loss, even when you don’t feel hot or sweaty. And just like on any demanding trip, by the time you feel thirsty, you’re already behind.

Drinking water consistently—not just when it’s convenient—helps your skin stay more resilient to everything else you’re asking it to handle.

(Know) Before You Go

Fish oil is one of those things that works quietly in the background—but in a dry, high-exposure environment, that baseline matters.

Your skin barrier is built from lipids, arranged in structures that help seal in moisture and keep irritants out. Those lipids don’t just appear—they’re derived in part from the fats you eat. Omega-3 fatty acids from fish oil become incorporated into cell membranes, helping maintain flexibility and integrity at the surface of the skin.

Taken consistently before and during a trip, fish oil can support a more resilient barrier—one that’s better able to hold onto hydration and less prone to dryness and irritation. It’s not an overnight fix, but it can shift how your skin responds over time, making it feel less tight, more supple, and better equipped to handle constant exposure to wind and dry air.

One note: quality matters here—look for a high-quality fish oil that’s been third-party tested and purified to remove heavy metals and environmental toxins, so you’re supporting your skin without introducing unwanted contaminants.

Mongolia Skin Takeaways

• Dry air continuously pulls moisture from the skin

• Wind accelerates dehydration and irritation

• UV exposure is higher than it feels

• Temperature swings increase sensitivity

• Simple, protective routines work best

About This Series

The Traveling Skin Guide is an occasional series exploring how different travel environments affect your skin—and what you can realistically do about it.

Because sometimes the difference between a great trip and a slightly uncomfortable one isn’t where you go.

It’s how well you prepare for what the environment does to you while you’re there.

Some links in this piece may be affiliate links. I only share products I genuinely use and like.

I’m finally in Mongolia as you’re reading this.

Before I left, I was sent a document—practical, thoughtful, and quite exacting in a way that made me pause. And smile.

Following are a few of the guidelines to which I’m advised to adhere if invited into a nomadic family’s ger (the Mongolian term for yurt).

Step over the threshold.
Not on it. It’s a bad omen.

Take the bowl with your right hand.
Even if you’re not planning to drink. (Except I’m left-handed. I’m hoping not to flub this one.)

Don’t point your feet toward the back of the ger.
It’s where the Bhuddist shrine and family photos reside.

Don’t lean on the center columns.
Seems obvious.

Don’t give candy to children.
It’s not about manners. It’s about access to dental care.

There’s humility in realizing how many small things you do automatically.

How you enter.
Where you stand.
What you do with your hands.

None of it feels like a decision—until it is.

If we stop at a nomadic family’s ger, I’m not supposed to stay in the car.

You go in.
You say hello.
You sit.

You accept what’s offered.

Sometimes that’s airag—fermented mare’s milk. If you don’t want to drink it, you raise the bowl to your lips and politely pretend to sip. I haven’t yet decided how this one is going to go down.

I was also told to bring a few small things.

Not gifts in the way we usually think about them. Just useful objects—pens, notebooks, batteries, soap.

Things that travel well.

This is the kind of pre-trip advice for which I’m really grateful.

And then there are the rules about what not to take.

Not rocks.
Not fossils.
Not even the ones someone offers you.

Some places are still left as they are. I wish this one were obvious enough that it didn’t need to be said.

I don’t know yet what I’ll get right. Or wrong. But this is the kind of cross-cultural exchange where small gestures carry weight—and where paying attention matters as much as than knowing everything in advance.

That’s part of why travel like this stays with you. Not because of a post-worthy selfie. But because, for a moment, you are not at the center of things.

You enter someone else’s space and follow their rules. You take what’s offered without reshaping it to your preferences or comfort. You notice your instincts—to reach, to decline, to correct—and choose, instead, to adjust. And to live in the unfamiliar.

It’s a form of respect that asks you to set yourself aside just enough to see more clearly.

And in paying attention that way, something lasting opens within you.

I’ll have more to say when I’m home.

For now, I’m trying to remember where to put my feet.

Why do I travel so much? Because I can. Sounds like a flippant answer, right? It’s actually the most honest one I have. Because I know tomorrow isn’t a promise.

A Body That Forced Perspective

Over the past two decades, I’ve had to cancel or limit travel and other plans more times than I can count.

Part of that was chronic pain in my 30s.
Part of it was my own doing — returning in my 40s and 50s to my teenage passion for competitive horseback riding.

I loved it. I also chose a hobby remarkably unforgiving to a body that was never especially hardy to begin with.

Falls are inevitable in that sport. And as I got older… the breaks got bigger.

First: a compound ankle fracture and surgery (hello, metal souvenirs).
Then: a shattered collarbone, seven cracked ribs, and a punctured lung — plus a two-day hospital stay and even more hardware.

Both injuries—plus quite a few others—forced me to cancel travel plans. The ankle still reminds me it exists every time I work out or hike.

Eventually, I got the message: My body requires a tamer hobby.

Today I have my health. And let’s be real, I’m probably as healthy right now as I’ll ever be again. That realization, if you face it head-on, changes how you plan your life.

Loss Changes the Timeline

By our 50s, most of us have learned this the hard way: we don’t get to choose how much time we have.

I’ve lost people close to me — some slowly, some suddenly. Enough to understand that waiting for the “perfect time” can be just another way of saying never.

So I don’t wait anymore to do the things that fill my bucket.

The Empty-Nester Window

Right now, my kids are in college (one is almost out).

They’re happy. Independent. Busy building their own lives.

Once upon a time I was needed hourly — chauffeur, chef, tutor, confidant, cheerleader.
Now I’m needed… but not constantly.

They’ll need me again someday, I’m sure, when adult life delivers its inevitable plot twists. For now, I’m on part-time duty.

And that leaves space for me to chose myself.

A Second Act After Law

After 25 years as an attorney, I retired. No daily meetings, conference calls or looming deadlines.

Instead, I spend my time on things that matter more to me:

• volunteering as a CASA for two young children

• serving on the board of a nonprofit advocating for abused and neglected youth

• helping in the equestrian community

• reading (often about the places I travel)

And traveling. Lots of traveling.

Travel Expands My World

Travel isn’t escape for me — it’s perspective.

Standing in a place changes your understanding of it. Studying a culture from afar is not the same as tasting the food, hearing the language, and seeing daily life unfold around you.

Some destinations that reshaped my worldview most: Rwanda, Israel, Dubai, The Galápagos. Every trip teaches me something — about history, geography, people, and honestly, about myself. I grow from traveling.

Why I Go Now

So why do I travel so much?

Because I finally can.

Because there were years I couldn’t.
Because I know that can change again without warning.
Because this window of health, time, and freedom is not permanent.

Because travel fills my bucket — and I’ve learned not to postpone filling it.

I’d love to hear from you:

Why do you travel?

I was intrigued. I was already pretty well traveled, and I loved a quest. Especially one that feels a little competitive. I figured I had to be close, and I still had twelve years to go.

The moment I got home, I put pen to paper and did the math. I was closer than I thought.

36 states

30 countries.

Fourteen states in twelve years? Probably doable.

Twenty countries? Totally different challenge.

I took an inventory. I had preschoolers. I was practicing law. My kids needed me, my job needed me (or maybe I needed it), and honestly my marriage needed me. Those years — juggling two careers and raising young children — didn’t feel like peak adventure season.

So I made a decision: I would pursue 50 states by 50 and let the countries wait.

What the List Gave Me

Having the goal changed how I planned travel. Instead of waiting for the “perfect” time to travel, I started fitting trips into the life I already had.

For my 40th birthday my husband offered to throw me a party or plan a beach getaway. Instead I asked for ten days on my own to “knock off” the states least likely to appear on a romantic itinerary (sorry Midwest): Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Arkansas.

I mapped out an ambitious solo driving route with as many stops as possible. I felt a bit like Thelma (without Louise) until Oklahoma, when my youngest sister flew in for a long weekend. Together we visited the Oklahoma City Memorial, soaked in hot springs in Arkansas and souvenir shopped for those ubiquitous keychains with male bull parts — a memory I treasure because it was ours alone.

Another year my dad joined me for Wisconsin, Minnesota, Ohio and Indiana. We toured Paisley Park, visited the Indy 500 racetrack, and admired modern architecture in Columbus. My dad made huge efforts to travel with us in his seventies. He understood time wasn’t unlimited. Every time those photos resurface on my phone, I’m grateful we said yes.

I even took a trip to the Dakotas with someone I didn’t know well. She spontaneously offered to join me, and I loved her carpe diem attitude. We toured the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore, the Badlands, and Fargo together. Without that list, we probably would have stayed acquaintances.

My final states took me to Lexington, Kentucky for VIP tickets to the Land Rover Three-Day Eventing equestrian competition, where we watched Olympians soar over impossible obstacles — and to West Virginia to hike with a law school friend and tour a power plant, something I never would have chosen on my own.

I hit my goal two years early. Overachiever.

The list gave me permission to carve adventure into a phase of life that didn’t want to make room for it.

What Letting Go Gave Me

But the part of the list I didn’t finish taught me more. Abandoning the second half—50 countries by 50—was the right decision.

Eventually I did pass 50 countries. But slowly. One at a time. Without racing a clock.

I learned I prefer slow travel — actually being somewhere instead of collecting it. And at this stage I’ve earned that right.

So… Should You Have One?

Sometimes a bucket list is the wind that pushes you out of the harbor. Other times it turns travel into something you’re trying to finish.

If it inspires you to say yes to experiences you’d otherwise postpone, keep it. If it makes you rush through life or through places you should savor, it’s time to put down the bucket.