52 Places To Love in 2021


We asked readers to tell us about the spots that have delighted, inspired and comforted them in a dark year. Here, 52 of the more than 2,000 suggestions we received, to remind us that the world still awaits.

South Wales, Wales

“You’re in a place set apart.”

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

Saipan, Northern
Mariana Islands

“An island of hidden caves,
covered in untamed jungle.”

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



Meghan West of Denver, a geophysicist working with the Army Corps of Engineers, traveled to Saipan looking for unexploded ordnance from World War II.

Kaliya Dhrow, India

“If you go, you will get lost and you
will recover something of your own.”

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



Varun Suchday, of Bhuj, India, rode a motorcycle to tour the remote landscape near the village of Bhadli with his father and uncles in 2020.


Two bottom photographs taken by Kaushik Gor.

Isfahan, Iran

“People see Iran as politically
charged and oppressive. But there
is a lot of beauty and innocence.”

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



Neeknaz Abari was raised in Washington, D.C., and works at a consulting firm in Dallas.

The Llanos, Colombia

“You can kiss your cell service goodbye.”

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



Samuel Dulik, a native of the San Francisco Bay Area, is a management consultant in Bogotá.

Siwa Oasis, Egypt

“This place touches the
deep pools of your soul.”

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



Catherine Litten of Hyattsville, Md., works as a director of scholarships for an education nonprofit.

‘Golden Triangle’

“Everyone talks about Big Sky Country,
but it’s the land. You could see forever.”

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



Doreen Stevens is retired from nonprofit work and lives with her husband in Arlington, Mass.

The Camino de
Santiago, Spain

“An experience that is more
about the self than the selfie.”

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



Sam Michaux is from Minnesota and moved to Los Angeles to write novels.

Malpaís, Costa Rica

“The colors of the ocean
were always changing, and
the sunsets were gorgeous.”

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



Kara Hoholik is the chief executive of Social for Good Co., a content marketing agency. She lives on a farm in Western Michigan.

Dakar, Senegal

“The city that refuses to
be like anywhere else.”

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



Faridah Folawiyo is an art historian and independent curator from Lagos, Nigeria. She spent two months in Dakar for an artist residency in 2018.

London’s St. James the
Less Church, England

“I yearn to explore again.”

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



Sarah Best is a small-business owner and a poet. She lives in Madison, Wis., with her husband.


Photograph of the church taken by Rii Schroer/eyevine/Redux.

The Marrakesh
Medina, Morocco

“It’s a place you can’t really
understand until you live in it.”

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



Jennifer Borch lives in Jericho, Vt., where she is the education program coordinator at the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants.

Nanda Devi
Mountain, India

“I can’t help but long
for its comfort again.”

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



Prayash Giria and his wife, Shoma, visited Nanda Devi, India’s second-tallest mountain, in 2016. Mr. Giria, of New Delhi, returned in 2019.

Trail, Iceland

“The terrain is so diverse,
every mile is remarkable.”

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



Stacey Mei Yan Fong is a part-time baker in Brooklyn.


Photographs by Meredith Passaro, a friend of the contributor.

Wadi Rum, Jordan

“It’s the silence that really strikes you.”

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



Hashem Sabbagh, a lawyer turned filmmaker, was born and raised in Amman, Jordan.


“San Nicolas is, in my humble
opinion, the most beautiful town
in the world to walk around.”

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



Elise Thompson is a marketing manager who has lived in New York City for 16 years.

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

“This city has a laid-back,
almost island vibe versus the
hustle and bustle of Taipei.”

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



Andrew Liu was born in China and raised in the Hudson Valley. He works in immigration law and is currently based in Berlin.

The Scottish
Highlands, Scotland

“Just absolutely magical. I can’t use
that word enough to describe them.”

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



Morgan Charles lives in Somerset, England, and works in the corporate security department of United Airlines.

Lake Michigan

“The first time we visited, it felt
like we were looking at the ocean.”

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



Jillian Snyder is a humanities and English lecturer in Valparaiso, Ind.

Burkina Faso

“Trapped between the dry grassland
of the Sahel and the lush Ivory Coast.”

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



Teresa Gotlin-Sheehan is a high school social studies teacher in Denver. She joined the Peace Corps and lived in Burkina Faso from 2012 to 2014.

Asunción, Paraguay

“It’s a place to go if you believe
the most meaningful part
of travel is meeting people.”

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



Abigail Williamson is an English language teacher on Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts.

South London
Parks, England

“Most visitors know Hyde Park,
St. James Park or Regent’s
Park, but in my opinion, the
true gems lie south of the river.”

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



Sage Erskine has lived in London for five years and is originally from Maine. She is a project manager at a creative agency.

Beirut, Lebanon

“It’s the warmth of the
people that will change you.”

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



Carolinne Griffin, a writer and editor, lives in Vermont with her husband, two children and dogs.


Photographs by Dylan Griffin, the contributor’s husband.

Siberia, Russia

“I was curious to see the actual Russia.”

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



Betsy Feuerstein, a lawyer in Washington, D.C., has lived on four continents.

Andros, Greece

“Philoxenia, or hospitality, is at the
heart of everything on this island.”

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



Maria Dal Pan is a writer and a founder of Erwin Park Communications. She lives in Montclair, N.J.https://50ab578a6c28702a038e61eb923b1d7f.safeframe.googlesyndication.com/safeframe/1-0-37/html/container.html


“The sheer beauty of the
land was astonishing.”

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



Ivan Stoler lives in New York with his wife and works at a manufacturing company. (His family is from Moldova, which once belonged to Greater Romania.)

East Haddam, Conn.

“It’s as if I had to be a tourist
to appreciate this place.”

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



Caley Millen-Pigliucci is a graduate student in journalism in New York.

Yarra Ranges National
Park, Australia

“An hour and 20 minutes from
Melbourne you can be surrounded
by mountains and valleys and mist.”

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



Eden Alley-Porter is a mariner, archaeologist and adventurer who lives in Melbourne.

Bryce Canyon
National Park, Utah

“You can truly feel like you’re
hiking on a different planet.”

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



Nora Lewis, an assistant public defender, left Miami where she was quarantined alone for a trip through Utah.

Huanchaco, Peru

“A place to lay low for a bit, just relax
and not worry about having to move on.”

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



Will Lopez Flores is an educational-technology professional and photographer in San Francisco.

Jimmy’s Beach, New
South Wales, Australia

“Where river and sand flow.”

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



Suzie Shaw is a retired high school teacher in Sydney, Australia, where she spent a pandemic lockdown last year.

The University of
Cambridge, England

“I’ve found myself guarding
my memories like a fairy tale.”

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



Peggy Xu is from Johns Creek, Ga., and is studying law.

Lahore, Pakistan

“Especially in winter, this city nourishes
you. It opens its arms to you, then
feeds you and wraps you in a hug.”

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



Haneen Iqbal is a 29-year-old freelance writer in Toronto, Canada.

Svalbard, Norway

“It’s like you’ve left Earth, hovering
above it in this magical place.”

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



Krysten Koehn, an art teacher who lives in Hamburg, Germany, spent an artist residency in Svalbard in 2014.

Alberta, Canada

“The mountains feel so close — it’s as
if you can reach out and touch them.”

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



Marokh Yousifshahi is a policy analyst in Calgary, Canada.

Santa Rosa, Calif.

“In winter, electric-green grass
crops up beside the native oaks.”

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, whichalong 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



Ria D’Aversa lives in Santa Rosa, Calif., and is the co-founder of a small natural wine company.


“There’s a saying Haitians always
use: ‘We are waiting for you here.’”

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



Nadia Todres, a New York photographer, runs Center for the Arts, a nonprofit organization in Port-au-Prince that brings art and education to adolescent girls.

Ladakh, India

“No one told me ‘the love
of my life’ could be a place.”

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



Jody Greene is a Zen Buddhist and literature professor at the University of California, Santa Cruz.

Hokkaido, Japan

“A whole weather forecast is
devoted to the changing leaves —
vivid reds, oranges and golds.”

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



Michael Sheridan, an engineering consultant from London, traveled with university friends to Hokkaido in October 2019.

The Hudson River’s
Tappan Zee, New York

“Take the time to stop at your
local park or the local bridge
and appreciate the beauty.”

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



Alexis Sabol, a nurse, was born and raised in White Plains, N.Y.

Northern Arkansas

“There’s everything you imagine when
you think of an untouched paradise.”

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



Shaye Anderson is the director of content strategy at a creative agency. She lives in Bentonville, Ark.

Tagaytay, Philippines

“The peak of Taal was almost
a spiritual experience, like
we were on sacred ground.”

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



Selena Ponio is a legal analyst who lives in New York City.

Milford Sound,
New Zealand

“I’m not sure what’s the best: the
glorious mountains, the beautiful
water, our joy at the view — or my
relief that we got there and back.”

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



Laura Lynn Walsh is a retired teacher who lives in Fairbanks, Alaska.


Top photograph by Kathryn Eidson, the contributor’s sister.

Córdoba, Spain

“You can touch history
in this ancient city.”

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



Fernando Moreno Reyes is a marketing manager who lives in Madrid.


Photographs by Irene Sanchez, a friend of the contributor.

Gates of the Arctic
National Park and
Preserve, Alaska

“It’s intense, exhausting and mind-
boggling — the vastness of that space.”

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



Bree Kessler is a public-space researcher, designer and activist who lives in Alaska with her husband, a law enforcement park ranger, and 4-year-old son.

Con Dao, Vietnam

“A tropical paradise with a terrible past.”

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



Thang Dac Luong is a lawyer and a writer in Sydney.

Northern Kyrgyzstan

“Mountains, grasslands
and crystal-clear lakes.”

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



Yogesh Mokashi is the founder of The Egg Factory, a chain of restaurants in Bangalore, India.

Table Mountain, Cape
Town, South Africa

“It was a moment to pause
and appreciate our
surroundings and one another.”

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



Daniela Radpay, a high school Spanish teacher and university lecturer from Austin, Texas, traveled to Cape Town with two of her siblings.

Turku, Finland

“A lot of life here convenes
around the river.”

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



Avanti Chajed is from Illinois and lives in Turku. She is a doctoral student doing work on immigrant family experiences.

The Rawah
Wilderness, Colorado

“Just out of sight sat an entire
world of silent creatures
building unrivaled beauty.”

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



Michala Whitmore, an amateur historian living in Boulder, Colo., loves to hike.

The Methow
Valley, Washington

“Every day there are micro-scale
changes. It’s like a little piece of heaven.”

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



Rose Thompson, 32, lives in Mazama, Wash., with her partner and two dogs.

The World

“Every vacation turned into a
lesson in history, art, language,
culture, food, geography and
geology — whether I liked it or not.”

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



Carrie Dovzak is a retired geologist living in Berkeley, Calif. She dreams of traveling post-Covid.


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here