I’ve been thinking lately about the small, unannounced moments that make a life… those little vignettes that slip between the bigger headlines and the day-to-day. The flashes of humanity.

 

For the past three months I’ve lived in a state of near-constant motion: crossing continents and time zones, cities and countryside, cultures and customs:

 

Norway’s fjords and mountain passes.
Greece’s islands and Athens’ graffitied chaos.
Italy’s familiarity and comfort food.
The Cotswolds with its honey-colored villages and cozy pubs.
New York City’s vibrant energy.
Charleston’s palmettos, blue sky, and front porches.
Nashville’s wide-open heart and pedal steel.
Edinburgh’s early-winter shadows and gothic spires.
London’s rush and daily rhythms.

Morocco's warm embrace and haunting call to prayer

 

Everywhere I’ve gone… every border crossed, every city street walked, every conversation held, every workshop and gathering… I’ve been struck by the same thing:

 

 

Not the big sweeping ones, but the ordinary ones.

 

And throughout it all, I kept thinking: If this is what the world still looks like… if this is what people are choosing… then there is so much to hope for.

 

Because what I’ve seen, over and over again, is that people are still reaching for one another.

Still gathering.
Still choosing presence over performance.
Still willing to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with someone they’ve only just met and say, “Tell me who you are. Tell me what you love. Tell me what you’re hoping for.”

 

The news cycles tell us one story: fear, division, unraveling.

But my own eyes have told me another. 

 

It's hopeful, this thing I'm witnessing. Not naive. Not ignoring what's hard in the world. But grounded in something I can actually see: people choosing each other. People deciding that gathering matters. People showing up, again and again, to the simple, revolutionary act of being present with other human beings.

 

These months of travel have taught me that the world is full of so much beauty, so much richness, so much goodness. Full of people who want to gather and learn and celebrate and see one another clearly.

 

 

A shared meal.
A spontaneous friendship.
A conversation that deepens your connect.
A moment of softness.
A sense of belonging you didn’t expect.

And maybe that’s the most hopeful thing I can offer you, wherever you are reading this from.

 

Maybe that's the real geography we should be paying attention to: not the place we're traveling to, but the people we're choosing to travel with. Not the destination, but the moments of life happening around us. It's not the story the world tells us about differences and fracture, but the story we're actually living.. the one where people still believe enough in each other to show up.

 

May you choose to see the small vignettes of life happening around you in the day to do. 

 

That is worth being feeling hopeful for. Being thankful for. 

 

Here you'll find my round-up of recent European travel-related news, tips, and resources so you can be in the know:

 

 

 

Too often we treat time for ourselves as selfish or indulgent, as if rest must be earned, or solitude justified. But this past September I did something I’d never done before: I took an entire week just for me. I found a small villa on a Greek island I’d never even heard of and booked it.

At first, the guilt rose quickly. I shouldn’t spend the money. I should be working. I should be home.

But I quieted those voices long enough to press “book,” and the moment I did, a wave washed over me.. relief, excitement, a deep exhale. It felt like I had finally given myself something I’d been needing for far too long.

 

 

Solo travel is not about being brave. It’s about being present. It gives you back parts of yourself you didn’t realize you’d handed away

 

It slows you down.
It reveals what you actually love.

It teaches you to trust your instincts, your desires, your rhythms.
And it reminds you that solitude is not loneliness… it is glorious spaciousness.

 

When you travel alone, it's almost as if everything tastes different, sounds different, feels different. I find my senses more aroused, probably because  I'm not thinking of those in need around me. I am fully present with myself. 

 

You notice sounds, see light shifting, and become more aware of quiet stirrings of your own interior world in ways that the day to day demands of life often claim.

 

You begin to realize that being alone isn’t empty..  it’s full. Beautifully full of life to experienced on your own terms.

 

 

1. Start with a meal.
Take yourself to breakfast. Breakfast is less intimidating than dinner, and there’s something comforting about beginning the day with yourself. Bring a book or journal if it helps. Let your nervous system ease into it.

 

2. Take a drive or a long walk with no destination.
Wander. Turn down a road because it looks beautiful. Let your thoughts catch up with you. Maybe take a long way home vs the normal route, stop along the way because your curiosity affords you a moment to discover something new. 

 

3. Do one thing you usually reserve for “later.”
The slow meal.
The museum.

The bookshop.

Explore town without an agenda.
The thing you never make time for.

Do it alone, without rushing.

 

4. Book one night away… close, easy, familiar.
You don’t need a plane ticket. You need space. A night in a nearby town or countryside or city hotel can shift more than you think. I love a staycation in my hometown. I feel I experience the city differently. 

 

5. Practice not explaining yourself.
This might be the most transformative part. You owe no one a reason for wanting rest, quiet, or separation from the constant demands of your life. I talk to too many people - both men and women - who all have a reason why now isn't the right time because of work, family demands, money, etc. Take the trip. Do it. Book to room. Time doesn't wait for you. 

 

A morning walk. A fire at night. A slow breakfast.

These small rituals become anchors when you eventually venture farther. I have found myself always writing in a cafe or bar late evening. I love this time of night to process, unwind and allow myself to empty the day on a page. I also love lingering over a long dinner. We are talking two hours. When you spend a lifetime (what it feels like!) cooking endless meals for your family, the quiet luxury of someone preparing a beautiful meal to enjoy is one to savor.. and I do.

 

7. Build trust with yourself in increments.
Courage compounds. A breakfast becomes a day trip. A day trip becomes a weekend. A weekend becomes a week spent floating in the sea or wandering a mountain range.

 

And one day, you’ll look up.. perhaps with a view pointing towards the Atlas Mountains as I am at this very moment and realize:

 

You are no longer afraid to be with yourself.

 

 

Being alone teaches you to listen… really listen … to the places inside you that get drowned out by noise, duty, and expectation. It teaches you to tune into what you want, not what everyone else wants of you.

 

It slows you down.
It brings you into your body.
It recalibrates you.
It expands your inner world so you can return to the outer one with more compassion, more energy, more clarity.

It lets you remember who you are when no one is watching. And somewhere in the quiet, you begin to hear that inner voice.. 

 

 

Solo travel is not a performance. It is not an act of defiance. Please here me: It is not selfish.

 

Time alone.. true, generous, uninterrupted time.. changes the way you inhabit your own life. I find it to be healing in ways I don't realize I need.

 

And once you taste that kind of homecoming.. even in small doses… you’ll never again believe the lie that you could “never” travel alone or that you “shouldn't”. You’ll know, with everything in you, that you can.

 

And here’s the truth: You don’t take these trips to escape your life.

 

 

 

This winter, step aboard a different kind of journey… one that moves not in haste but in harmony with the season. A cinematic passage through four of Europe’s most storied cities: from Budapest’s thermal glow to the canals of Amsterdam, storybook of Prague to the classical elegance of Vienna. Designed for those who once dreamed of backpacking by rail but now crave beauty, autonomy, and depth, this small group experience offers a soulfully paced itinerary, rich with subtle luxuries and atmospheric moments.

 

Expect candlelit dinners, foggy mornings, long train rides with time for reading and tea, and days that invite you to wander, linger, and feel the weight of place. 

 

It’s not a tour. A European passage. It’s a winter interlude.

 

The experience is personal and authentic, with time to immerse yourself in local culture, freedom to roam and time set aside for your own exploration. 

 

 

 

Athens’ thriving creative scene takes centre stage at Mona, a 20-room boutique hotel where edgy local style is the star. A former bank turned hotel, House of Shila, it is easily one of the city’s coolest stays. 

 

Around 30 minutes’ drive from the airport and 20 minutes’ walk from the Acropolis, Mona’s discreet sense of style begins from the moment you enter the front door. That is, if you can find it. Tucked away on a side street in Psyrri, one of Athens’ most vibrant neighborhoods, with no obvious signage, the unassuming black door is a gateway into the exclusivity to come.

Everything in Mona’s rooms is either made by hand, recycled from the building’s original materials or crafted by their design studio. From the smallest rooms to the sleeps-four penthouse with a terrace, that means original terrazzo floors, custom-knit rugs, industrial metal finishes and ethereal cotton curtains. The colour scheme errs towards sultry fashionista: burnt orange and ochre velvet chaises, tables and plinths in blacks and whites, and low beds and lighting to set the mood.

 

Minibars are stocked with suitably artisanal creations and the fresh beans to make your morning coffee are a nice touch. The white Corian tubs, organic shower amenities, and flower-shaped brass taps in the sink and shower at a beautiful layer of textures. 

 

An honesty-bar-turned-nighttime-hub with Acropolis views is one of Mona’s highlights; ditto the basement speakeasy, which hosts a full social calendar of events from pop-up art exhibitions to chef-residency supper clubs, live music sessions and soirées. The breakfast room also features a coffee bar and sofa area.

 

Breakfast is served in the main dining area, with an open kitchen in the corner where you can see your spoils being prepared. Every spread features a Levantine mezze (labneh, tapenade, tahini dip), and a choice of eggs (I recommend the wild oregano scrambled) plus a sweeter option, such as Greek yogurt with berries or French toast. Offerings are limited but beautifully presented, with each dish as artful as its surroundings. You can also request this to be served to your room or the rooftop.

 

Mona doesn’t provide lunch or dinner (unless you’re attending their one-off events), but the hotel does have a unique spin on room service. From the in-room iPads, you can choose from their favourite dishes at nearby restaurants in the city, which they will plate and bring to your door.

 

Double rooms from €195 ($225), year-round. Breakfast included. Free Wi-Fi.

 

I am often asked where am I traveling to next. So I thought I'll share my upcoming schedule - you can follow my journeys via Instagram stories @suddenjourneys or click on the link at the bottom of this newsletter. 

 

 

Here is a recent reads I highly recommend 

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately..  not the kind measured in square footage or postcodes, but the quieter, interior kind. Mine has always lived between places: the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee, a cozy farm cottage in the English countryside, and the string of roads and rooms in between. Every journey teaches me something about returning; every return teaches me something about becoming. Yet home can be difficult to pin down. It is part architecture, part memory. Part shelter, part soul. It is both public and private, porous and enclosed. For some, home is a house; for others, a neighborhood, a language, a landscape, a scent. I love meditating on this idea. 

 

Reading Philosophy of the Home, I felt something inside me exhale. Coccia writes as if home is not a destination but a practice, a way of arranging our days so tenderness and attention have somewhere to land.  It reminded me that the places we inhabit, even for a moment, shape us. And perhaps that’s the real work: learning to build a sense of home we can carry, no matter where the road takes us next.

 

There is a quiet seduction of a well-curated life: the way belongings can feel like markers of who we hope to become. I’ve moved enough, lived in enough temporary rooms and borrowed kitchens, to know how easily “taste” can masquerade as a compass. And yet every time I settle somewhere new Savannah, NYC, England, a borrowed apartment in Florence…  I’m reminded that beauty can hold us, but it cannot anchor us.

 

Perfection felt like looking into a slightly uncomfortable mirror. Main characters Anna and Tom’s impulse to flee Berlin for a more “authentic” life in Portugal to scrub the slate clean, start over in a softer climate, somewhere slower, simpler, cheaper is one I’ve heard echoed by so many friends (and felt myself more than once.. or more accurately understand all too well). But the book reveals the tender truth: geography can change the light in your kitchen, but it can’t change the questions you carry inside.

It’s a reminder I return to often on the road: that the real work isn’t in what we collect, we curate or where we relocate, but in who we are becoming as we move from one place to the next.  

 

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Gathered a little stack of books from my friend’s impressive home library while staying at his place in Brooklyn. I told him his book collection is small reminder of why we’re friends in the first place. Books reveal a person’s inner landscape. I love the way someone’s shelves tells you who they are, what they love, and the worlds that have shaped them.