A space for reflection
Uluru, also known as Ayers Rock, sits in the center of Australia’s Northern Territory, far from the country’s major cities. It is roughly 1,800 miles from Sydney—a reminder of how vast Australia is, and how remote this landscape remains. The flight from Sydney is about three and a half hours nonstop.
Washington’s cherry blossoms are now in full bloom.
Each spring, the city changes almost overnight. Washington is usually defined by its permanence—heavy marble, wide avenues, a city built to project endurance. And, at times, one demonstration after another.
But for a few weeks, that permanence is softened by something entirely fragile.
Pale pinks and whites line the Tidal Basin and spread outward into the neighborhoods. The hard, stone edges of the capital are suddenly framed by millions of delicate petals. For a brief period, the city feels lighter, quieter, and more open.
It is easy to forget, living here year after year, just how beautiful Washington can be.
The routine of daily life tends to flatten that awareness. But mornings like this—standing by the water as the sun rises behind the blossoms—restore it.
The light, the trees, the reflections on the water—it all comes together in a way that feels both simple and fleeting.
In a few days, the petals will begin to fall, and the city will return to its heavier, more familiar self.
But for now, Washington is at its best.
Rotorua is different from other places in New Zealand. The difference is not subtle.
It has one of the largest and most visible Māori populations in the country. Over 40% of Rotorua’s residents are Māori—well above the national average—and the region sits within the traditional rohe of Te Arawa iwi. That presence is not confined to cultural sites or performances. It is part of everyday life.
You hear te reo Māori—the Māori language—spoken in schools and in public spaces. Marae are part of the landscape. Cultural expression is visible, but more importantly, it is continuous. It does not feel preserved for visitors. It feels lived.
Melbourne is often described as Australia’s cultural capital, and after a few days there, I began to understand why. It’s a city that doesn’t demand that you look up at skyscrapers; it asks you to look in—into narrow alleys, quiet library nooks, and hidden basement cafés.
The city has a lively energy—cafés everywhere, crowds along the river, and during the early rounds of the Australian Open, the whole place feels like a celebration of sport. I stayed at The Langham Melbourne, just a short walk from the entrance to Melbourne Park, which made getting to the matches especially easy. At one point, I asked the hotel staff whether the Australian Open was their busiest time of year. The answer was telling: Australians love sports, and Melbourne hosts major sporting events throughout the year. That enthusiasm is hard to miss—it’s part of the city’s identity. And, at least from what I saw, Australians also have a healthy appreciation for beer.
It’s one thing to read about New Zealand’s tallest mountain; it’s quite another to see it suddenly rise above the horizon with such sharp authority.
The Māori name for the mountain, Aoraki, is often translated as “cloud piercer.” According to Ngāi Tahu tradition, Aoraki was an ancestor exploring the seas with his brothers when their canoe, Te Waka o Aoraki, capsized. As they climbed onto the overturned hull, the cold south wind froze them in place, turning them into the great stone peaks of the Southern Alps. Today Aoraki remains the highest of these brothers and holds deep spiritual and cultural significance.
When I arrived in Sydney, the first thing I noticed was the harbour. Few cities sit on water as beautiful as this — ferries crossing the harbour, the white sails of the Opera House catching the light, and beaches only a short ride away.
The famous views were every bit as striking as I had imagined.
But what stayed with me most were the quieter moments: an outdoor cinema beside the harbour, a peaceful reading room filled with light, and a conversation with a man inviting Jews to put on tefillin near Bondi Beach. Behind the postcard beauty of a city, there are always deeper stories.
Before this trip, I had never heard of Queenstown.
That almost feels embarrassing to admit now.
The first time I saw it — the mountains rising sharply from Lake Wakatipu, the impossible green of the landscape, the clarity of the air — my jaw literally dropped. Not metaphorically. I stood still.
Some places impress you.
Some rearrange you.
Queenstown rearranged me.
For most of my life, Australia and New Zealand felt almost theoretical — names at the bottom of the map, separated from my daily reality by oceans and time zones. I had traveled far before, but never that far. The idea of seventeen hours in the air — followed by another eighteen on the return — felt less like travel and more like a test of endurance.
Distance has a psychological weight. It suggests effort. Risk. Fatigue.
And yet, this year, I decided to go.
I flew from San Francisco to Singapore — roughly seventeen hours suspended above the Pacific. I spent a couple of days exploring Singapore, then continued on to Melbourne for the Australian Open. From there I traveled through Australia and New Zealand, moving across landscapes that seemed improbably wide, watching light linger late into the evening as if the day itself resisted ending.
On the way home, I flew from Auckland to Singapore, paused briefly at Changi Airport, and then boarded Singapore Airlines Flight 24 to JFK — more than eighteen hours nonstop, one of the longest commercial flights in the world.
By the time I landed in New York, I had crossed half the planet.
Something in me had shifted.
The world no longer felt impossibly large. It felt connected. Reachable.
More surprising still: I realized I was comfortable with ultra-long haul travel. What once seemed daunting had become manageable — even calm.
Over the years I’ve stayed in many hotels. Most of them blur together. A few, however, have never left me.
This is not a list of the “best” or the most luxurious places in the world. It’s something more personal. These are properties — including one cruise line — that stayed with me long after I checked out. Places that, for one reason or another, made me feel unusually well cared for, at ease, or quietly happy to be exactly where I was.
I have stayed at every place on this list. None of this is theoretical.
The list is in no particular order and will continue to evolve over time. If a place belongs here for you, feel free to leave a suggestion in the comments.
In December 2015, I returned to Paris — a city I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. This visit was different. It came a little more than a month after the November attacks, when coordinated shootings and bombings struck the city, including the Bataclan concert hall. Many lives were lost, families were shattered, and the city felt the shock in its bones.
I didn’t come to photograph tragedy. I came because I needed to see Paris again — not only as a postcard, but as a place that had been wounded and was still standing.
For years, my camera has been drawn mostly to the beauty of Paris — the bridges, the monuments, the river, the light. Those images still matter to me.
But on this trip, I realized I haven’t always paid enough attention to how the city lives — and how it responds to challenge. Paris has faced many: from the German occupation during World War II to more recent acts of terror. Each time, it absorbs the shock, mourns, and somehow continues.
I’m sharing these photographs now, years later, because I’ve come to see that my work has often focused on the surface beauty of the “City of Light.” This visit reminded me there is another Paris — one shaped by memory, resilience, and everyday life.
Walking toward the Bataclan, the surrounding streets looked surprisingly ordinary. Cafés were open. People carried groceries. Traffic moved as usual. And yet there was a quietness underneath everything — as if the city were speaking in a softer voice.
Outside the Bataclan, the mood changed. Barriers remained in place. Notices were taped to railings. The familiar façade now carried a weight that was impossible to ignore.
People didn’t gather like tourists. They paused, looked, and moved on. It felt more like a place of memory than a concert hall.
Later, I walked to Place de la République. The square had become an informal memorial — candles, flowers, handwritten notes, photographs, flags. People moved carefully, making space for one another.
There was grief here, but also dignity. The city was remembering — quietly, without spectacle.
This visit changed how I see Paris.
I still love its monuments and bridges, but I came away with a deeper appreciation for the everyday life around them — and for the resilience of a city that mourns, remembers, and keeps going.