Over the last 20 years I’ve traveled to South Wales about seven or eight
times with my wife, and later our children, to visit family in a town near
Swansea called Mumbles. (The name is a corruption of the French word for
“breasts.”) It sits at the edge of the Gower Peninsula — a beautiful wild
place that offers expansive beaches, medieval castles, hilltop trails,
horses that graze near Stone Age ruins and picture-book villages with
friendly pubs serving Sunday roasts and local ales in dark-wood booths.
Mumbles is homey and welcoming, yet we never saw tourists there. The
roads are so small and narrow that getting from one place to another feels
like it’s much farther than you actually travel.
Punctuated by weddings, births, graduations, anniversaries and deaths,
our trips represented different stages in our lives. But each trip also
seemed less like a visit to relatives in the old country than an escape to a
secret, beautiful place that only we knew.
—OWEN MARTIKAN
The Saipan Hash House Harriers running club meets every Saturday and full
moon, with a designated person — the “hare” — bushwhacking a trail for the
rest of the runners.
Saipan is only five miles wide and 12 miles long, but runners showed
me parts of the island I never would have found myself. We saw a beautiful
B-29 engine from a plane crash in the mountains. Also a staircase cut into a
cliff, from the last Japanese command post.
Runners took me boating, diving, hiking, camping, spelunking and
golfing. Swimming in a lagoon that dropped toward the Mariana Trench, we
marked how far we’d swum with the top halves of three submerged Sherman
tanks — a door open, guns sticking out. I was never the hare, but I’m coming
back to set a trail.
—MEGHAN WEST
I’m always on the lookout for roads that don’t exist on maps. I talk to
locals, get their directions. When the pandemic hit, I kept hearing whispers
over cups of chai: Nomadic herders had found kotaro, a Kutchi word for rock
formations sculpted by wind and water.
I pinned it down to several villages. Riding along a dirt road, we
passed a hill split by nature. On both sides you have water, craggy peaks.
This one huge mountain has six peaks, which I named Mahabharata, after the
ancient poem in which five brothers share one wife. It was around noon, the
sun was beating down and we had been riding for two hours when the road
ended. We parked our bikes.
From the rim of a crater, I looked inside this marvelous, endless
landscape of red: streaks of crimson, saffron — orange, also. I started
climbing down, through the different shades of the setting sun, and I came
to a waterfall with fish flying upstream.
—VARUN SUCHDAY
My memories of Isfahan come in snippets: The hiss of the nan panjereh, an
intricate funnel-cake dessert, as my grandmother shows me how to dip it into
hot oil; the smiling, chattering taxi drivers with their endless questions
about America and their playful jabs at my accent; the winding alleyways
that reveal hidden nooks and crannies in the Grand Bazaar.
There’s a difference between the people and the government. I wish
Americans could see the vibrant curiosity of the people who live here. I
used to visit Isfahan every year. I spent long mornings lifting weights in
the women-only gyms, and afternoons with my grandfather, watching him
lovingly watering the plants in his garden and shooing away stray cats. But
divisive politics, and now Covid-19, have made it harder. My grandfather
died two years ago. I wasn’t there. I feel my Farsi growing rusty on my
tongue.
—NEEKNAZ ABARI
Beyond Cartagena’s tourist plazas and Bogotá’s urban hubbub, Colombia’s
dramatic Andean peaks dissolve into vast, wild eastern grasslands — the
Llanos.
Tropical rhythms are replaced by the twangy harp of joropo, and the
smell of the sea gives way to that of tallgrass, cattle and smoky barbecue.
As Colombia has attracted more international visitors in recent years,
the Llanos have remained relatively untraversed. The Llanos host an alluring
combination of pristine biodiversity and traditional ranching culture
seemingly lost in time. Anacondas, howler monkeys, capybaras and crocodiles
live alongside ranchers, farmers and thousands of cattle. The grasslands
once featured some of the wildest battles of the
Independence era, and have witnessed the 20th-century horrors of guerrilla violence and
drug trafficking. Today, though, like the rest of Colombia, the Llanos are
emerging, if unsteadily, as a place of tranquillity.
—SAMUEL DULIK
Siwa haunts my dreams. This oasis, far into the Great Sand Sea of western
Egypt, nearly 400 miles from Cairo on lonely desert roads, is a place of
infinite vistas and intimate conversations. Only one road goes to Siwa; it’s
a valley of figs and palms, hot and cold springs.
Inhabited since Paleolithic times, Siwa is where the past, present and
future seem to exist at once. There you’ll find a mountain filled with
Ptolemaic tombs and the Temple of the Oracle, both thousands of years old.
When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean it. I frequently find myself in
my dreams walking through date orchards at night past the lakes, into the
desert, nearly feeling the cool sand in my tired feet as I wonder at the
stars. I always awake with a sense of calm and clarity.
—CATHERINE LITTEN
I grew up on a farm 14 miles west of Big Sandy, Mont.
The plowed land closest to our farm held an old buffalo wallow, and there
used to be
tepee rings
in the front pasture. This part of Montana, Lewis and Clark country, is flat
and implacable with swells, coulees and hills. Ancient volcanic ranges — the
Bears Paw Mountains, the Highwoods, the Little Rockies — sprawl in the
middle of enormous wheat fields and acres of rangeland. Every morning when I
was a kid, I saw the land first and the world second. It’s astonishingly
severe and beautiful.
Light lasts a very long time there, in the summer evenings. There is sort of
a constant background of big winds. And so we had a shelter belt, which was
rows of trees that are around one corner of the main farm stand. And I would
go down there as a kid and make my little world out of the clods of earth
that were, and are, part of my soul.
You’re small in that part of the country.
—DOREEN STEVENS
My grandfather and I have walked four routes together on the Camino de
Santiago. He is 80 and Catholic; I am 35 and skeptical. Our walks were
undistracted opportunities for him to transmit family history and a lifetime
of wisdom to me, punctuated by bullfights and tapas.
Our first walk was in 2007 after two of his brothers died. I was not
expecting to enjoy it; the idea was that we were offering up our sufferings
for our ancestors. Instead, I found myself appreciating both the forced
meditation and the fellow travelers we met on the way. We’ve gone back
multiple times and brought different members of our family with us. I’ve
rethought jobs, relationships and life direction over hundreds of
kilometers. When you walk into a town, you really smell, hear and see the
gradual changes from rural to urban and back again. My father died recently.
My grandfather and I are hoping to go back to the Camino next year, and walk
the last 100 kilometers on the French route on his behalf. For my
grandfather, completing the Camino would release my father’s soul from
purgatory. For me, it would be a chance to reflect, in gratitude, with and
for the family I have left.
—SAM MICHAUX
I studied abroad in San Jose, Costa Rica in 2005. Every weekend, we’d go
explore the country. One of those trips was to Malpaís, a beach on the
Pacific Coast. It took so long to get there — a bus to a ferry to a taxi — I
remember wondering, “Is this going to be worth it?”
It was so beautiful. At night, everything closed, and it was really dark. I
remember being on the beach, looking up, and really seeing the stars. I saw
a satellite for the first time. I felt small and big at the same time, like
I was connected to everything. When you travel, you’re able to become a
different version of yourself. In Malpaís, we slept on hammocks on the beach
for a dollar. I felt so free. I’m from New Jersey, where there were always
lights and people around. This time in Costa Rica felt like an introduction
to me stepping into myself and finding my independence.
—KARA HOHOLIK
I landed in Dakar to the bluest sky I’ve seen, hundreds of sprawling baobab
trees, sandy dust and angelic light.
Dakar is a city whose stability has centered me during my shakiest times. It
is a place where tradition runs through every corner: the Wolof language,
the sharing of meals — especially thieboudienne, or red rice with fish.
Along the Corniche, you’d think
the whole city is working out.
I turned 25 in Dakar, a city with such a clear sense of self, ideals and
history, a city that refuses to be like anywhere else, a city that taught me
the importance of being my own person, a city that made me question what I
want to bring to the world, and what I stand for. I felt empowered by Dakar.
It stood up for me. I’ve never felt unsafe there — and, as a Black woman
anywhere, that’s an amazing thing.
—FARIDAH FOLAWIYO
I studied abroad in London in 2000 when I was a junior at New York
University, and it was in a class called “The City and Green Spaces” that I
discovered this church, St. James the Less. It’s been 20 years but I still
vividly remember that from the first time I walked in the building, I
immediately felt at home. There are humble brick arches, elaborately painted
tilework, and warm, worn wood. There were stars carved into the walls above
the windows, and patterns that reminded me of quilts that my grandmother had
made. I wrote in my journal that it reminded me of hot cider and fresh
bread.
It’s been so important to find those things that feel warm and cozy; to have
a place to go in our minds that’s inviting, even if our reality is not. St.
James the Less is in that space in my mind, along with endless cups of tea,
candles and good books.
—SARAH BEST
I left the Marrakesh medina two years ago, and this love letter has been in
my heart ever since. I was teaching at a university in Marrakesh, and in my
second year I found an apartment that met all my needs: It was deep in the
medina, the old city, with a rooftop terrace.
Inside the medina, there’s always this background noise — drumming and
dancing and the sound of thousands of people passing through. There were, I
think, seven mosques within sight of my terrace, and five times a day the
call to prayer would start from each of them a few seconds apart, like a
battle of the voices. I learned about the cold of the desert — my house was
open, so when it would go down to 40 degrees, I’d basically be camping in my
bedroom with sleeping bags. I have a ticket to Morocco in February — I’m not
sure I’ll be able to use it yet, but I’m holding onto that ticket with all
of my heart.
—JENNIFER BORCH
When I think of Nanda Devi — one of the world’s most storied mountains,
worshiped by locals as a living goddess — a sense of comfort comes in the
form of a memory: My wife and I are sitting on the steps of a bungalow,
spending a quiet moment together watching the sunset.
In front of us is a wide panorama of 23,000-foot peaks, with Nanda Devi
dominating the landscape. It was a doomed romance. A few months after we
were married, Shoma was diagnosed with cancer. We’d have three years
together. I had this fear after my wife passed away: Will I remember Shoma
going forward? How she spoke, how she felt, what she said, how she looked?
The next time I saw the mountain, I was alone. The first memory that came to
my head was of that earlier evening: a golden glow on her face. She looked
at peace.
—PRAYASH GIRIA
In 2019, I hiked this 34-mile trek in southern Iceland with my friend
Meredith and her mom. This was the first time any of us had planned a trek
like this overseas. We definitely did some practice packing sessions
beforehand!
We climbed a glacier using crampons, spikes attached to shoes for traction,
and hiked through six miles of volcanic ash. On the last day, we climbed
over this bridge by a huge waterfall. The mountains were covered in moss and
there was a perfect, bluebird sky. I felt privileged that I got to see
something so special and beautiful. I’m a plus-sized Chinese woman, and I’ve
been told I can’t do things like this. But guess what: I did it, and I did
it really well! I’ve climbed an ice wall. I’ve done double-digit river
crossings with my pack over my head. This trail taught me how strong and
powerful I can be.
—STACEY MEI YAN FONG
You should always arrive in Wadi Rum at sunset. The sand will be red, and as
the sun slips behind ancient rocks, it will turn a dozen shades of pink and
gold. In the light, the mountains do tricks, too, shape-shifting into whales
or mystical paintings or the image of Mother Nature herself.
It’s a place untouched for centuries. Your schedule is dictated by sunset
and sunrise. In the vastness, you feel close to the center of the universe.
I came back to Wadi Rum as an adult after many hiking trips there as a
schoolchild. I had been living in New York and had grown used to so much
noise. I realized I had been to these sands so many times before, but had
never appreciated their majesty. It needs to be the right moment — both in
the sunset, and in your life. But if you arrive on time, Wadi Rum will
change you forever.
—HASHEM SABBAGH
My mom is from Aruba, and two of my aunts are still there. One aunt bought
my grandparents’ house, so we drink wine on the same back porch where I used
to play.
While I’m there, I might wake up early one day and go to
Arikok National Park,
or visit the
Guadirikiri and Fontein caves.
I go to the beach every day. But one of my favorite things is spending time
in San Nicolas, where my family is from. I’ve seen the town shift from a
bustling oil refinery-anchored town to a somewhat depressed village when the
refinery closed. Now, it’s been reborn thanks to the Aruba Art Fair.
I did 23andMe, the DNA test, and my roots run really deep there. My
great-grandmother is descended from the Arawak tribe. Now, so much of the
island is built for tourists, but there’s even more to explore on the other
side.
—ELISE THOMPSON
I spent a year in Kaohsiung as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant from
2017 to 2018. I had never been to Taiwan; I didn’t even know how to
pronounce Kaohsiung before I arrived! The city is truly Taiwan — you don’t
hear Mandarin as often as you hear the local Taiwanese dialect. People spend
hours at meals; after they eat, they’ll walk to the night market and eat
some more and then they’ll take more drinks down to the beach. It’s very
easy to access nature, too — there are mountains and beaches right in the
middle of the city limits.
My boyfriend came to Taiwan with me, and we weren’t really sure how to
navigate queerness in Asia. My only frame of reference was mainland China,
which is not exactly welcoming. This was before gay marriage was legalized
in Taiwan — but I think that, generally, Taiwanese culture is super
accommodating and welcoming. Now, we’ll come across something, usually food,
that makes us miss Kaohsiung almost daily.
—ANDREW LIU
The Scottish Highlands changed my perception of my own country. I grew up in
West Sussex, on the south coast of England, but didn’t really get a chance
to explore the region until 2017.
During that trip, we were driving on the NC500 and came upon this vista of
snow-capped mountains perfectly reflected in the loch. There are those
moments when you’re traveling — I call them 100-percent moments — and this
was one of them. As soon as we’re able to safely travel again, the Highlands
will be one of the first places I’ll go. I’ll catch the Caledonian Sleeper
to Inverness, visit Cairngorms National Park and stay at The Fife Arms. I’ll
go to the Isle of Jura’s whisky distilleries, and go on long, blustery walks
in the rain. This has been a distressing time, but I hope that we can all
learn to really love and appreciate where we’re from.
—MORGAN CHARLES
When I left Vancouver to study for a Ph.D. in South Bend, Indiana, I thought
I had lost the sea, sky and mountains. No one had told me about Lake
Michigan.
During my first fall break, my husband and I drove out to see it. The wild
dunes, roaring waves and endless horizon stunned me. The next summer, I swam
lap after lap in it. Visits to Lake Michigan have gradually taken on
increasing seasonal regularity: marveling at ice waves in winter, enjoying
April wildflowers, swimming late into autumn. We spent the summer
quarantining with family in the Poconos in Pennsylvania so we could have
help caring for our son, Jem. Our first week back, I took him up to the
lake. He was around three months old at the time. I walked down to the water
with him in my arms. I wanted him to experience this thing that has been so
profound in my own life.
—JILLIAN SNYDER
Burkina Faso is a West African country of desert and baobab trees, where
over 60 languages are spoken.
I had heard rumors of an abandoned cliff village, like Mesa Verde in the
United States, not far from my host community. When a friend came to visit,
we set off on a three-day bike tour to visit and view the Niansogoni Cliffs
and the Sindou Peaks. While Niansogoni was only around 20 miles away, the
road was rough, and, in the middle of the hot season, we arrived dusty and
dehydrated. After a change of clothes and a surprisingly cold Brakina beer,
our guide led us on a hike up the cliffs. We viewed this abandoned
troglodyte village of the Wara people, who in the 14th century fled into the
hills to escape the neighboring Senufo tribes. Up top, in the quiet among
the baobab trees, at the ends of the earth.
—TERESA GOTLIN-SHEEHAN
Stepping off the plane in Asunción, the Paraguayan capital, is like opening
an oven: The heat fogs up your glasses and the air smells of diesel smoke
and grilled meats.
The colorful buses racing through the city, where I lived for two years,
inevitably have to slow down for the mango and lapacho trees in the roads —
the custom is to pave around them, rather than cut them down.
Paraguay is sometimes seen as a transitional place between the rain forests
of Brazil and the Bolivian salt flats. Backpackers tend to skip it for its
flashier neighbors. But for me, travel is not about taking pictures of
famous things: It’s about the people. And Paraguay is the sort of place
where multiple people will offer — if not beg — to drop you off or pick you
up from the airport. That embrace can be felt even among visitors.
—ABIGAIL WILLIAMSON
In London, the parks have always been a common social gathering place, but
they’ve come into their own for me during lockdown. I live in South London,
and our local parks are true gems. Clapham Common is the spot for many big,
boozy birthday gatherings over the years. We can walk through the
rhododendrons in Dulwich Park, and we can get a glimpse of the city from the
hills in Brockwell Park.
Early on in the first lockdown, my boyfriend and I went to Battersea Park,
which is also where we went on one of our first dates (and where we had one
of our first fights). The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming and it
almost felt like it was going to be OK. When restrictions started easing,
the first thing we did was call some friends and meet in Myatt’s Field Park.
We sat six feet apart, and it felt momentous.
—SAGE ERSKINE
Lebanon is often depicted as a country plagued by tragedy — war, corruption,
economic collapse. But for me, Beirut, Lebanon’s cosmopolitan capital, is
where I have spent nights of dazzling fun, and the mountains and coastline
captivate with enigmatic beauty.
When I was six months old, my father, who was born in the village of Sahel
Alma, took me to his homeland to be baptized. A generation later, I returned
with my own six-month-old daughter in my arms. In the same little church in
the coastal town of Jounieh, she received the same sacrament; I wrote her
name in the same baptismal book. In the Lebanon I know, my aunts prepare
mezze plates that stretch the length of the dining room table while we snack
on green almonds. The air is scented with orange blossoms and gardenias from
my Teta’s garden. The sun dips into the Mediterranean, and I am offered the
ultimate luxury: the embrace of family.
—CAROLINNE GRIFFIN
After passing the bar exam to become an attorney, I was craving adventure.
The train is such a famous way to travel through Siberia. We spent five
weeks getting on and off at little towns. Siberia, in summertime, is bright
and blossoming, and so are the people — they were really curious about us,
and we were really curious about them.
Our trip unfolded in spontaneous vignettes: A group of off-duty soldiers
beckoned us into their compartment, sharing horseradish-infused vodka and
communicating via mime and Google Translate. Assigned to the bunk next to me
for an overnight leg, a chattering 6-year-old excitedly taught me the
Russian words for colors. On the banks of the Kama River, we stumbled upon
an outdoor disco party, and at a synagogue in Novosibirsk, a rabbi shared a
conversation in bits of broken Hebrew. Siberia is not cold and barren. I
found warmth, shared meals and endless points of connection.
—BETSY FEUERSTEIN
I first went to Andros, the island where my family is from, in 1992, the
summer before I started high school. It was magical. My cousin Yanni and I
were just gone, all day and night. We’d wake up in the morning and go
swimming, and be out dancing all night with the new friends we’d made. The
island was full of life.
I went back in 1996, and Yanni had cancer. And while I remember 1992 like it
was yesterday — what I wore, where we went — I can’t really remember that
second trip. Yanni was in and out of the hospital, getting chemo. He died a
year later.
In 2017, I went back with my children and was relieved to see it mostly
unchanged, though there were things I hadn’t noticed before, like a modern
art museum and a cinema showing vintage films. It’s this warm, welcoming
place, and the air smells like flowers. Now, my kids can’t wait to go back.
—MARIA DAL PAN
Growing up in a Bessarabian Jewish family, I had heard of the Old Country.
What we discussed was never anything good. I never heard one thing about the
sheer magnificence of the landscape or the bounties it serves up.
We traveled in Bukovina and Maramureș, hard on the border of Ukraine. The
muddy back roads, undulating hills, farmsteads, haystacks and horse-drawn
wagons showed a vanishing way of life. Romani on the side of the road were
selling some brass stills to make plum tuica.
Driving just outside the city of Piatra Neamt, a wrought-iron fence with a
Magen David (Star of David) caught my eye. I jammed on the brakes. We walked
uphill to a cemetery — no sign. The caretaker, 80 if he was a day, showed us
around. Maybe 10, 15 people in town are still Jewish. It was heartwarming to
see someone caring for the place. I knew I was going to ask my wife to marry
me. Driving from Bukovina — known for its beech trees and painted
monasteries — to Maramures, we followed a zigzag mountain path: a place of
transition. We reached a lookout. I said, “This is the place.”
—IVAN STOLER
I never liked being from a small town. Even when I was a kid, I wanted to
get away as quickly as I could. As soon as I got a driver’s license, I was
zooming to other places.
But last year — a year when the world felt smaller than ever — I felt a
connection and longing for my hometown, East Haddam: its rolling hillsides
along the Connecticut River; the beautiful Swing Bridge, which opens for
boats; the Goodspeed Opera House, where I worked as an usher in high school.
Although I’ve known East Haddam all my life, I finally fell in love with it
last summer, when I visited with my boyfriend. We jumped into the waterfall
at Devil’s Hopyard State Park; I found myself marveling at the quaint farm
stands and picturesque New England churches. It may be small, but it’s home.
—CALEY MILLEN-PIGLIUCCI
There are few places that I love as deeply as the Yarra Ranges, particularly
the old-growth mountain ash. It’s popular in the summer, but it comes into
its own in the winter, when it’s covered in snow.
My favorite time to go is when there’s been a heavy snowfall, and the road
is closed. I can get around that — it’s about a two-hour trip by public
transport, then you walk straight up. Nobody else wants to do that, other
than the occasional crazy local. I’ll get this beautiful place to myself,
along with the wombats, wallabies and lyrebirds, who mimic everything around
them. I’ll literally hear 20 bird calls from one bird who’s doing a little
dance to attract a mate.
The first time I went, I couldn’t believe a place like this existed so close
to where I live. I’ve gone back almost every winter since.
—EDEN ALLEY-PORTER
I arrived in the afternoon, as part of a solo road trip during quarantine
through Utah. I drove the main park road all the way to the top, and then
stopped at every lookout on the way down, getting different vistas of the
famous hoodoos. The deep red-orange spires of rock look like the castles you
would make as a child with wet sand at the beach.
But it was during my two long hikes the next day that I fell in love. The
afternoon sun warm, the air clean. I heard only my feet walking through
sand, along with an occasional bird, horsefly, or scurrying chipmunk. This
year has been wildly lonely and isolating. But at the canyon’s base, the
path aggressively inclines, and I stopped. My brain got quiet. For the first
time in months, my thoughts weren’t racing. Hiking, I realized, turned
forced isolation into chosen solitude. Bryce is the perfect place to be with
yourself.
—NORA LEWIS
Huanchaco was a place that was never on the map for me as I made my way
traveling down South America.
I decided to stay for two weeks, three weeks, then that became four months.
As you walk down the main road, you have miles of beach on one side and a
small, yet still bustling town on the other. You always hear people: vendors
selling jewelry, or people selling different types of food. There’s a meaty,
smoky smell in the air. I still smell the picarones (fried doughnuts) and
papas rellenas (fried stuffed potatoes). And every single day has an amazing
sunset.
Locals and tourists alike have a look at the waves to decide if a sunset
surf is in the cards. (It’s good surf every day.) They believe Huanchaco was
where surfing was born.
They have these reed canoes they use for fishing called “caballitos de
totora.” It’s a symbol of Huanchaco. They say it was the original surfboard.
—WILL LOPEZ FLORES
There is a section of Jimmy’s Beach north of Barnes Rocks where the bay
loops gently around to a point where the river and sand flow into Port
Stephens.
In late afternoon, the light sits on the lapping waves, making beautiful
patterns in the soft beige sand.
This is my favorite place for walking my dog: We stop to examine the sea
grass and shells (some like long fingernails), while a flock of small terns
delight me with their fluttering nose-dives into the water. When I started
visiting, submerged trees, now gone, stuck up from the sand — a strange
sculpture forest that grew from the evolving landscape of the beach. I also
found middens, the piles of shells from ancient Aboriginal feasts. This
summer, walking with Diesel, I saw a dingo trotting behind us. With a
frisson of anxiety, we hastened our pace until he padded into the bush, and
we plunged into the icy water.
—SUZIE SHAW
I had no specific idea of what Cambridge looked like before I moved there,
just an amalgam of images from watching Harry Potter movies and hearing
about famous alumni like Isaac Newton.
It was very grand and Gothic, but beyond that, I was struck by the sheer,
ritualized extravagance that goes into the substance of life in Cambridge;
we had formals every Friday with a three-course dinner and wine pairings,
and wine tastings tucked behind massive clocks reminiscent of “The Invention
of Hugo Cabret.” I was also lucky to find a community of close friends from
around the world. Both made my year at the university’s Trinity College feel
like an almost surreal, pristine experience. I’ve found that during times of
stress or grief, Cambridge will come to mind as a kind of counterpoint. I
feel transported back to that safe, cocooned existence. I have a profound
sense of gratitude for my year there; what a privileged time to have had.
—PEGGY XU
I was 18, and I hadn’t been back to Lahore for 12 years. It was winter. At
the open-air Liberty Market, my mother and I wandered the stalls as cloth
vendors unfurled bright bolts of fabric, beckoning us to come look. At dusk,
with pashmina shawls wrapped around our shoulders, we devoured a bowl of
spicy chicken karahi, using piping hot khamiri roti bread to wipe the bowl
clean. The food practically sang as it made its way into our mouths.
Pakistan has a bad reputation, and is often overlooked by travelers who come
to South Asia. But Lahoris are some of the kindest, most hospitable people.
They love to take care of you and feed you. Lahore’s hot summers can feel
oppressive, but in winter, in the cool dusk, lights twinkle in the fog.
Androon Lahore, the city’s historic core, is studded with monuments from the
Mughal era. I love to watch the Punjab locals feasting on terraces of
restaurants overlooking the grand Badshahi Mosque — they are just regular
people living their regular lives, and they are so alive in the present,
while always connected to their past.
—HANEEN IQBAL
The Arctic Circle is a world above our world: wrinkles of rock and ice, rare
wildlife and vast white swaths stretching out forever into an ice-dotted
sea.
The sun would cast rose-colored light over the glaciers, turning them pink,
orange and gold. One night a full moon illuminated these mountains across
the inlet from where we were anchored. The mountains — glowing white,
absolutely phosphorescent — seemed to tumble down to meet inky-black sea.
When I went to Svalbard, I felt as if I’d been told an intimate secret by
the Earth in a language that only I and the others on the ship could
understand: hearing the loud crack of a glacier calving, ice dust flying,
ice chunks splashing into the ocean, ripples getting larger and larger,
turning into waves breaking along the shores of the fjord. When we were
there, it became a part of us and we became a part of it. And as it shrinks,
that part of me also shrinks.
—KRYSTEN KOEHN
I immigrated to Alberta, a province in western Canada, as a 9-year-old
Kurdish refugee who didn’t quite know where she belonged in the world.
When we first landed in the city of Calgary as a family of six, we weren’t
used to the cold, dry climate. Growing up in Iraq, I had only seen snow on
TV. But after moving to Canada, I learned what it looked and felt like; I
watched the landscape change with the seasons. I could hardly believe that
these beautiful mountains and lakes existed in my backyard. I didn’t have
any formal schooling back home, but my parents always instilled in me and my
siblings the value of education. Alberta is where I earned my bachelor’s
degree, which ultimately allowed me to pursue a master’s degree. Alberta is
where I learned how hard my parents worked to provide for us, and where I
learned how free I could be as a woman.
—MAROKH YOUSIFSHAHI
Santa Rosa is full of majesty. Everything is within reach, including the
rough, beautiful Sonoma County coastline. The region brings together so many
different experiences: manicured vineyards, a wonderful downtown with
breweries and coffee shops, dark-green forests and snaking rivers, mountains
and big agricultural valleys.
One of my favorite places in Santa Rosa is Trione-Annadel State Park, which,
along with other parts of the region, has suffered from wildfires in the
last couple of years. People in this agricultural community see the seasons
of destruction and renewal up close. They see how the fires hurt the economy
and the land. I think of myself as a resilient person; I’ve gone through
failures, traumas and upheaval. And I think that’s the ethos for Santa Rosa,
too: resilience.
—RIA D’AVERSA
I’ve learned so many lessons from people here: lessons in optimism, lessons
in Plan B. (Haitians are experts in Plans B and C. Things never go to plan.)
Grâce à Dieu — “Thanks to God” — is an expression that fits in every
conversation.
Artwork is the pulse of Haiti: Caribbean Craft’s extraordinary papier-mâché,
Pascale Théard’s beaded veve work, the beat of RAM’s Haitian drums, the
adored songs of BélO, the PAPJAZZ festival every January. I go to Hôtel
Montana Haiti from time to time for a drink at the end of the day. It has a
beautiful sprawling terrace that overlooks Port-au-Prince. There’s something
about the view: the palm trees as the light goes down, the airport’s small
landing strip, and, behind that, the mountains.
The mountains are Haiti for me. When the sun starts to set, a slight breeze
picks up and the leaves of the palm trees blow, and I just exhale.
Everything goes quiet there. I close my eyes — a moment to be grateful: I’m
here.
—NADIA TODRES
When I first flew over the Ladakh region, cradled between the Himalayas and
the Karakoram, my heart gave itself to Ladakh.
There’s intimacy at the top of the world. That at-homeness is peculiar for a
nonbinary American to feel, but something about me is recognizable to people
here. Once, we sat on the cold floor in a shaft of sunlight inside the
Mangyu temple complex and felt the continuity of practice held every day for
1,000 years.
Ladakh is my understanding of what heaven would be — grounded in this earth.
Every year, I visit Tso Moriri Lake, climbing to 15,000 feet in the dark
morning to watch the sunrise. I hear army trucks beginning to move and old
prayer flags flapping.
Before Ladakh, I thought being a traveler meant going to new places every
year. This region has taught me what can deepen and mature when you return
and return, and let a place remake you.
—JODY GREENE
As the cold winter takes hold, I find myself dreaming of hot baths and
nature at Nutapukaushipe Lodge, a remote onsen in the woods, five hours by
bullet train from Tokyo, another eight hours by car.
Japan is awash with these geothermal bath houses that many people use in
their daily routine. They act as part bath and part social club, where the
elderly crowds gather to gossip about local life. Our wooden guesthouse was
built into a rocky outcrop, underneath a looming volcano in Hokkaido’s
Daisetsuzan National Park. The lodge was cozy: a warm wooden smell, handmade
carvings, rugs everywhere, low tables, skiing paraphernalia, books and
handmade furniture. In Japan you go in completely naked. (Brits feel
horrendously awkward at the thought.) We weren’t ready to get naked in front
of each other’s wives — here it’s mixed-sex — we messaged the group to warn
of our onsen visit. I will forever think of sliding into the bubbling hot
water with cold cans of Sapporo beer, engulfed in steam.
—MICHAEL SHERIDAN
I must have crossed the old Tappan Zee Bridge hundreds of times. The bridge
itself always offered a sense of adventure, a glimpse of New York City 25
miles south, the bastion of West Point just north, and always a sense of
returning home.
As a kid, the bridge over the Hudson River was always a point of travel. It
is a connection point in New York. On a Sunday night in September, I found
myself sitting at Pierson Park in Tarrytown, watching the sunset over the
Tappan Zee. I thought, “This is a nice moment in time when I get to be here
and be peaceful and not worry about what’s next.” I was able to look at
things with a new adult eye. The bridge, now called the Governor Mario M.
Cuomo Bridge, is brand-new. It’s not the same bridge that was crumbling and
falling over from when I was growing up.
I was preparing to move to California after finishing Zoom graduate school,
and I became overwhelmed with a feeling that no matter where my life takes
me, this three-mile river crossing will always bear a sense of home.
—ALEXIS SABOL
There’s this little place tucked away in Northern Arkansas called Ponca.
Really, it’s the whole region around the Buffalo River that has been my Eden
and my escape during the pandemic. Untouched, rolling mountains. The foliage
is so lush and densely packed that my family has nicknamed it “the
broccoli.” Even in winter, there’s still so much green.
The Buffalo River is less than two hours from Bentonville, and I can’t
believe I didn’t know about it until recently. I’m sad that I missed out on
the opportunity to share it with my father, who died two years ago. He loved
the outdoors, and I feel like I’m in the right place — and at the right time
— when I’m there. It’s a place that has allowed me to strengthen my
connection to him.
—SHAYE ANDERSON
My family has a home in Tagaytay, a town outside of Manila. In January 2018,
my cousin, uncle and I decided to climb Taal, a volcano that I’d only seen
from a distance but never visited.
We started in the morning, taking a bamboo boat across a tumultuous lake.
Our guide, who lived on the island, was hiking in flip-flops. When we
reached the top, I felt like I was on Mars — there was this beautiful red
rock, and, suddenly, a crater with a lake in it. You could smell the sulfur.
I remember feeling so thankful. Taal erupted in January 2020. My memories of
this place are peaceful and full of color. Afterward, everything was covered
in gray ash, including my family’s home. I want people to know what it looks
like underneath the ash. Someday, I’d love to do that hike again.
—SELENA PONIO
Milford Sound, a fjord in New Zealand’s South Island, has always been on my
“bucket list.” I finally saw it in May 2019 on a trip to the country
organized through the University of Alaska, Fairbanks.
One afternoon, I boarded a 12-seater plane and sailed over three snow-capped
mountain ranges. When our group descended toward the tiny airport, we
couldn’t see the landing strip — all we saw was the water. As we cruised
around the fjord on the boat, the crew lined up a rack of water glasses and
drove under an enormous waterfall. The glasses filled; the water tasted cold
and refreshing. Milford Sound is so far from civilization — from cities,
from the built environment — that nothing about it is polluted. It was so
soothing to be on the water and watch the world go by.
—LAURA LYNN WALSH
I was born in Córdoba but was eating hummus in Jerusalem, another city where
Jews, Muslims and Christians are bound together, when I finally understood
its uniqueness. Tasting a chickpea purée, I recognized the techniques of
salmorejo, the garlicky Cordoban purée of tomato and bread.
There is a magical coexistence of Arab, Jewish and Christian culture in
Córdoba, and the city has more UNESCO World Heritage Sites than any other.
But it’s not just the beautiful buildings that bewitch you. The narrow
streets in springtime have the smell of jasmine and orange blossoms, and
once a year the city’s residents throw open their home’s inner courtyards,
revealing intricate gardens and intimate glimpses of their private lives.
Travelers to Spain often forget to pause here. Tourists go to Barcelona, or
Seville to see flamenco. People don’t know the history of Córdoba. For me,
the city is a dream come true.
—FERNANDO MORENO REYES
Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, which covers over 8 million
acres, is one of the least-visited parks in the National Park Service
system. One can only visit the park by taking a small bush plane — traveling
over the Arctic Circle — from Fairbanks.
Traversing the tundra, you feel like you’re going to fall into quicksand.
And the palette of the landscape in summer — all blues and greens mixed with
wildflowers — is also blinding, because it’s the same colors that you see
everywhere. Each summer around the solstice, when there is 24 hours of
daylight, my family spends time in Anaktuvuk Pass, the Native Alaskan
village located entirely in the park. We look forward to the slow pace of
life. My son will play with the kids there. It’s really important for me
that my son understands what it means to grow up in an Indigenous culture. I
want him to understand this place where we are just visitors.
—BREE KESSLER
My dad was a journalist, and he was imprisoned on Con Dao, an archipelago
off Vietnam’s southeastern coast, from 1961 to 1963. He was in an activist
group that was a part of the first coup against South Vietnam’s
then-president, Ngo Dinh Diem. He was held in a “tiger cage,” a five-by-nine
foot space, with five or six other people. Conditions were terrible. My mom
later told me that he survived by doing meditation, and by telling stories.
My father never went back to Vietnam. He died in 2006, and now, when I
travel there, I bring his journalist card with me to return his spirit, in
some way. Having a refugee background means I have an urgent need to love
this place because Dad could not.
I spent three days on Con Dao. I visited a cemetery, where relatives of
people who died or suffered in the prison can bring offerings. There’s a
marine conservatory, where baby turtles are being raised. On the last day, I
was on the beach. As I swam out in the warm, turquoise water, I burst into
tears. It’s important that we have these places where we can remember the
people we’ve lost. Someday, I’d like to take my children there so they can
learn more about their grandfather.
—THANG DAC LUONG
I traveled to northern Kyrgyzstan in August 2018. If you grew up in India in
the 1970s and 80s, as I did, the presence of the Soviet Union was pretty
big. We visited the city of Bishkek, which was an interesting mix of
Soviet-era architecture with a liberal, open society. But the city was just
a pit stop before we headed off into the hills.
Within a few hours in the mountains, the weather turned bad and it started
sleeting. I’m 48 years old, and it was the first time in my life I’d seen
something like snow. We would drive three, four hours and not come across
another person. We spent four nights in a yurt camp, and the hospitality was
mind-boggling. And this was just the northern part of the country! I’d like
to go back to explore the rest of it, hopefully soon.
—YOGESH MOKASHI
We were all in transition: breakups, leaving jobs. The trip felt
serendipitous — the remedy to all that.
It was a whirlwind: a 14-hour layover in Paris, three days in Cape Town. We
did not have a chance to plan anything, and everything we did was right at
the moment, adding to the adventure. We took the last cable car to the top
of Table Mountain at sunset — the whole mountain glowing with soft light.
White Arum lilies were everywhere. It felt like the perfect way to introduce
ourselves to South Africa. Enveloped in clouds, we could see just a hint of
the city, its lights twinkling in the distance. I love the mountain for how
it made me feel: the rush of emotion, the gratitude to share that experience
with my siblings. A picture of them looking over the horizon brings me back
to how much joy I felt.
—DANIELA RADPAY
I came to Turku in 2016 on a Fulbright scholarship, and I fell in love with
the city on my first day. I was walking across a bridge over the Aura River
— it was sunny, and the schools hadn’t quite started yet so there were
people all along the grassy areas on the riverbank. I remember thinking, “I
want to live here forever.”
Nature is so accessible here; there are these tall trees everywhere. It
seems like the earth and the sky can almost touch. The river is really my
thing. When I’m biking, I’ll go out of my way to ride on the river path. I
moved back to Turku this August to be with my now-husband. We haven’t really
been going out into the city because of the pandemic, and I almost feel like
I’m not really back because I haven’t seen the river yet.
—AVANTI CHAJED
My fiancé and I have backpacked the West Branch and Rawah Creek trails
multiple times. This June, we discovered vibrant microhabitats of mushrooms,
fungi, flowers and moss along the melted edges of winter snowbanks.
We marveled together along the creek bed and absorbed the lushness of early
summer. And it was all hidden, off the main trail. If we hadn’t stopped, we
wouldn’t have noticed it. Unfortunately, the largest forest fire in
Colorado’s recorded history, Cameron Peak Fire, which was finally contained
in early December, has consumed the Rawah Wilderness. Downed trees from
beetle kill fueled the fire, and the smoke clouds exist as harbingers for
the West’s desolate future.
The area is still closed and no one’s been up there besides the forest
service. But I think we’ll be able to return. The Rawah Wilderness captures
the fragility of nature. It’s taught me to say goodbye to the Colorado of my
childhood and prepare for an uncertain future.
—MICHALA WHITMORE
I spent five years coming to the Methow Valley for cross-country skiing
before I saw her in bloom. North Cascades National Park was all blue and
green peaks; the valley below was blanketed in yellow arrowleaf balsamroot
flowers. I knew then I wanted to stay and watch her colors turn forever.
I closed on my home a few months later, thinking I was a trailblazer with a
remote job who was leaving the city behind. That was September 2019. Now
I’ve come to know the Methow Valley in all four seasons, and she’s become my
refuge in the pandemic. Others have followed, and now this secret spot is
something of a Zoom Town. But there is space for all of us: It’s conducive
to social distancing here.
The Valley is three towns woven together: Mazama, Winthrop and Twisp, where
I head in summer to buy 25 pounds of Roma tomatoes and Dapple Dandy pluots.
In fall I hike to the Goat Peak lookout and admire the golden larches.
Methow Valley is small — it’s not like Sun Valley or Park City. But I know
it intimately now, and the rhythm of her landscape is a salve. It’s a
precious place.
—ROSE THOMPSON
I was only a few years old in 1965 when my father’s partners at his Brooklyn
gas station decided to sell. His next job would change my life.
He was an aircraft mechanic for Pan American World Airways. My middle-class
Queens family, whose big vacation meant going to Vermont in the summer,
suddenly was taking vacations to places like Mexico City, Moscow, Marrakesh
and Kyoto. Doesn’t everyone go to Tokyo for the weekend?
I took my first around-the-world flight alone at 18. All of a sudden this
new world just opened up to me. Am I inquisitive by nature or by
temperament? Or was it the traveling that really completed that mix? Where
everyone else is sitting in a plane, watching a movie, I’m at my window,
looking at geologic glacial features that are just so unbelievably beautiful
to me. I remember flying over the States and it was just a beautiful day.
There was a light layer of snow over a lot of the country as I flew. And I
just remember looking down at these open spaces, in these little towns, just
thinking to myself about how we’re such little ants on this planet. There
are many times when I have even spoken to the person sitting in back of me,
saying, “Oh, look at that!”
—CARRIE DOVZAK
A decade ago, the photographer Robert Presutti accompanied a friend to a
convent in rural Georgia: the Phoka Nunnery of St. Nino. A nun and two
novices had moved to the area years earlier and had begun resurrecting an
11th-century church from its ruins. Led by the abbess, Elizabeth, the
group of three slowly grew, so that by the time Mr. Presutti visited, the
convent comprised six nuns and one novice. By then, the church had been
completely restored.
Caleb Kenna has worked as a freelance photographer for more than 20 years,
traveling Vermont’s back roads, making portraits and capturing the state’s
varied landscapes.
Until a few years ago, he hired airplanes to climb skyward and create
aerial pictures. Nowadays he uses a drone.
Every year, millions of pilgrims descend on Karbala, a usually quiet
desert city in central Iraq, to commemorate the religious holiday of
Arbaeen, one of the largest organized gatherings of people in the world.
In 2019, when a small group of journalists was invited to attend, the
photojournalist Andrea DiCenzo jumped at the chance to go.
The event is a spectacular display of grief, mourning and religious
ecstasy. It commemorates the death of one of Shiite Islam’s most important
leaders, Imam Hussein, a grandson of the Prophet Muhammad.
The Tshiuetin line is a remote railway that runs through rural Quebec.
Named after the Innu word for “wind of the north,” it is the first railway
in North America owned and operated by First Nations people — and has
become a symbol of reclamation and defiance.
Since 2015, during her many journeys aboard the train, the photographer
Chloë Ellingson has documented the passengeres, the route and the
communities it serves.