Sydney Harbour at dusk, with the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge illuminated as evening settles over the water.
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.
Queenstown sits lightly on the edge of Lake Wakatipu — small in population, immense in presence.
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.
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.
Seeing the Bataclan like this — closed, watched over, and remembered — was the moment I truly felt how much the city was still hurting.
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.
At Place de la République — surrounded by drawings, flags, and tributes — the weight of the moment was written on people’s faces.
Seeing beyond the “pretty Paris”
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.
A walk to the Bataclan
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.
An outpouring of tributes lined the street near the Bataclan, and people moved slowly along the fence, taking it in.
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.
Place de la République
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.
People gathered quietly at Place de la République, reading the messages and tributes left after the attacks.
There was grief here, but also dignity. The city was remembering — quietly, without spectacle.
A deeper appreciation
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.
The Pont Valentré, Cahors remains one of the most complete and uncompromising examples of medieval military bridge design in France.
Cahors lies roughly 110 kilometers north of Toulouse, tucked into southwest France along a dramatic bend in the Lot River. The Lot itself is a long, winding waterway—about 480 kilometers in length—that rises in the Cévennes Mountains near Mont Lozère and flows westward through limestone valleys and vineyards before eventually joining the Garonne River near Aiguillon. In Cahors, the river curves almost completely around the old town, shaping both its geography and its history.
Cahors feels both geographically and psychologically distant from the great urban centers of France. I was there with the Alliance Française of Washington, and traveling with a group that shares such a deep appreciation for French history and culture made every discovery more meaningful. Yet one structure, above all others, has stayed with me: the Pont Valentré.
The Pont Valentré: A Masterpiece of Stone
I have seen many of the world’s great bridges. Some are elegant, some monumental, others purely functional. But for me, the quiet power and restrained beauty of the Pont Valentré stands apart. To call it merely “old” is an understatement. It is majestic—a staggering feat of 14th-century engineering that commands the Lot River with calm authority.
Construction of the bridge began in 1308, commissioned by the consuls of Cahors to strengthen the city’s defenses and secure control of this vital river crossing during a period of frequent conflict. Built entirely of local stone, the bridge took nearly 70 years to complete, a testament to both medieval ambition and the sheer difficulty of such a project.
With its three fortified towers, thick arches, and narrow passageway, the bridge was conceived not merely as a crossing, but as a defensive structure—a fortified bulwark designed to protect the city as much as to connect it. What struck me immediately was its absolute integrity. The Pont Valentré does not rely on ornament to impress. Its beauty comes from its perfect proportions, its clarity of purpose, and its sheer defiance of time. Stone laid more than seven hundred years ago still carries weight, meaning, and history—without apology.
Recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Pont Valentré is preserved not only for its architectural excellence but as an exceptionally intact example of medieval military engineering integrated into an urban landscape.
Cahors and the Lot River: The Lot curves around the old town, making the Pont Valentré not just a crossing, but a strategic gateway—binding geography, defense, and daily life into a single structure.
There is, of course, the famous legend associated with the bridge. According to local lore, the builder, frustrated by delays, made a pact with the devil to ensure its completion. When the work was finished, the builder outwitted him by assigning an impossible task—fetching water in a sieve—thus saving his soul. Whether one believes the story or not, the bridge feels almost mythic, as though it belongs as much to folklore as to history. When human ingenuity and endurance reach this level, legend feels almost inevitable.
I found myself comparing it to the Pont Alexandre III in Paris, because both are undeniably beautiful. The Parisian bridge is ornate, celebratory, and dazzling—a triumph of decoration and modern confidence. The Pont Valentré, by contrast, is elemental. It does not decorate the landscape; it belongs to it. It is not merely a monument—it is a survivor.
Beyond the Bridge: Château de Haute-Serre
The day continued with a visit to Château de Haute-Serre, a vineyard renowned for producing some of the region’s most distinguished Malbecs. Though it lies only about 10 kilometers—roughly a 15-minute drive—from Cahors, the estate feels far removed from the town. The road gradually leaves the river behind, rising into open countryside until you arrive at a place that feels notably quieter and more self-contained.
The contrast between the rugged medieval stone of the morning and the meticulously cultivated land of the afternoon was striking. At Haute-Serre, I felt an immediate sense of calm—a peaceful stillness born of space, order, and the slow rhythm of agricultural life rather than urban movement.
The estate unfolds across gently rolling terrain, with vines carefully tended and precisely aligned. Yet what impressed me most was the discipline of the operation itself. The winery was immaculate—spotless in a way that spoke to seriousness, precision, and deep respect for the craft. It was, quite literally, so clean that you felt you could eat off the floor.
We enjoyed an elegant three-course luncheon created especially for the Alliance Française of Washington. We began with a cream of pumpkin soup accented by Lardo di Colonnata, garlic croutons, and walnut oil. This was followed by duck breast served with carrot mousseline, kaffir lime, multicolored carrots, and an orange gastrique. Dessert was a refined praline mille-feuille.
Aging Malbec at Château de Haute-Serre: Bottles resting in the cellars of Château de Haute-Serre, near Cahors—wines shaped by patience, discipline, and a deep respect for place.
The food was exceptional, the wine a revelation—structured, expressive, and unmistakably rooted in its terroir. Nothing about the experience felt rushed or performative. There was only a quiet confidence, born of tradition, patience, and care.
Final Reflections
Cahors and its surroundings reward those willing to slow down, learn a bit of history, and truly look. The region feels light-years away from Paris—calmer, quieter, and deeply grounded.
From the enduring stone of the Pont Valentré to the hushed order of Château de Haute-Serre, I was struck by a shared sensibility: places built with seriousness, maintained with care, and allowed to exist without spectacle. Whether medieval or modern, these are places that do not ask for attention—they earn it.
The Pont Valentré is remarkable not because it is decorative, but because it has endured—doing exactly what it was engineered to do for centuries. Paired with the excellence of Château de Haute-Serre and the shared pleasure of traveling with such thoughtful companions, Cahors reminded me that when tradition is taken seriously, it remains very much alive.
The Cité de Carcassonne, rising intact from the surrounding countryside.
One of the highlights of my recent trip with Alliance Française of Washington in Toulouse was our day trip to Carcassonne—a place I had heard so much about but had never seen for myself. I expected something impressive, even picturesque. What I did not expect was its sheer scale. Carcassonne is far larger, more enveloping, and more physically demanding than I imagined—a vast, medieval city carved from stone—and all the more memorable for it.
Double walls, watchtowers, and crenellations—defense rendered in stone.
A Fortress That Endures
Its origins stretch back to Roman times, but most of what we see today reflects medieval fortifications later restored by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc in the 19th century. His restoration was brilliant but controversial due to his use of northern-style conical slate roofs.
Restoration in progress—Carcassonne is preserved not once, but continuously.
Passing through the main gates, you immediately understand why this site mattered so much strategically. This was not merely a town; it was a statement of power.
Walking the ramparts reveals the scale of Carcassonne step by step.
Narrow Stairs, Wide Views
Anyone visiting should be prepared: there are many stairs, and not gentle ones. Some are narrow, steep, and circular, twisting tightly upward along the ramparts. These passages feel unchanged by time, and climbing them is part of the experience. The reward is the view—sweeping countryside on one side, rooftops and stone lanes on the other—and a deeper appreciation for the fortress’s vastness.
Walking the walls makes clear just how extensive Carcassonne really is. Photographs do not prepare you for how long the ramparts stretch or how many towers punctuate the skyline. For all the fortification, the Cité holds quieter, spiritual treasures.
From the walls, the modern town spreads outward—then and now in the same frame.
The Basilique: Light and Reverence
The Basilique Saint-Nazaire-et-Saint-Celse, often overlooked amid the walls.
Located near the Château Comtal, the Basilique Saint-Nazaire-et-Saint-Celse is a place of striking calm and beauty. Often overshadowed by the walls themselves, the basilica deserves slow attention. Its stained glass—among the finest in southern France—fills the space with filtered light, offering a quiet counterpoint to the militaristic architecture outside.
It is a place that invites reflection, and for me it became one of the most moving stops of the day.
Stained glass fills the basilica with filtered light, a quiet counterpoint to the fortress outside.
A Somber Cemetery
Nearby, the small cemetery of the Basilique parish makes a powerful, somber statement. Its unexpected stillness grounds the grandeur of Carcassonne in something more human and final. Surrounded by ancient stones, it reminds you that this place was not only defended and restored—it was lived in, suffered in, and mourned in.
The small cemetery near the basilica—quiet, final, and deeply human.
An Open-Air Dream: Théâtre Jean-Deschamps
Another surprise was the Théâtre Jean-Deschamps, an open-air theater set within the walls of the fortress. It is genuinely impressive—grand, atmospheric, and beautifully integrated into its surroundings. Standing there, it was easy to imagine a summer evening performance under the stars, stone walls glowing as music or drama fills the space.
I would love one day to return and see a performance there. It feels like one of those rare venues where history and art genuinely converse.
The Théâtre Jean-Deschamps, set within the fortress walls. It’s easy to imagine music filling the stone on a summer night.
Beyond the Walls: Food and Life
Carcassonne is undeniably a major tourist destination, but it handles this role well. Just outside the walls, in the lower city (Ville Basse), the nearby town offers many restaurants, and the quality is excellent. After a long morning of climbing and walking, I sat down to a traditional cassoulet, the signature dish of the Languedoc region—rich, hearty, and deeply satisfying. It was both delicious and filling, exactly the kind of meal that feels earned after a day like this.
Final Reflections
Carcassonne is not just something you see—it’s something you climb, walk, feel, and absorb. Its preservation is remarkable, its scale surprising, and its quieter moments—the basilica, the cemetery, the theater—linger longest in memory.
If you are in Toulouse and have a day to spare, Carcassonne is well worth the journey. Just bring good shoes, a sense of curiosity, and time enough to let the stones speak.
View of Albi from the Pont Vieux, where the Tarn gathers the city into a single, harmonious scene.
Albi sits quietly in the Tarn, a small city of about fifty thousand people built along the river that shares its name. It’s only an hour from Toulouse, yet it feels more distant, as though it existed slightly apart from the rest of the world. I went without strong expectations and found a place that was coherent, beautiful, and welcoming.
What first struck me was the brick. In Albi, brick is not an architectural choice or a revival style — it is simply what they had. There was no local stone to speak of, so they used the clay from the riverbanks, fired it in kilns, and built an entire city from it. The result is a palette that changes with the light: pale peach in the morning, rose at noon, deep orange as the sun begins to fall. Every surface seems to absorb sunlight. Even the shadows are warm.
The cathedral of Sainte-Cécile rises from this landscape with a kind of massive grace. Often described as the largest brick building in the world, it has the presence of a stronghold rather than an ordinary church. The forms are heavy, cylindrical, almost defensive. It is genuinely difficult to describe the size of it. The building is enormous — far larger than photographs suggest — and from the ground it is hard to take in at once. You find yourself looking up, craning your neck, searching for a vantage point that will allow the whole structure to make sense. It was built in the aftermath of the Albigensian Crusade, when power needed to be proclaimed in masonry. To see it from the outside, one expects austerity. Yet the interior is surprisingly ornate — painted, gilded, and filled with color. The contrast is striking: a fortress with a jewel box within.
Albi rewards walking without urgency. The old town is intimate and charming, with narrow lanes, timbered facades, and small shops and cafés. At the center is the Marché Couvert, a covered market that feels lively without being loud. I had lunch there: grilled beef, a lovely salad, and a glass of wine. It was simple, fresh, and satisfying. The total was fifteen euros — the kind of meal that makes you feel momentarily lucky to be where you are. Travel days do not need to be grand to be memorable.
The Tarn River gives the city its orientation. The view from the Pont Vieux, the Old Bridge, is especially beautiful. From there, the cathedral rises above the water, reflected in slow green currents, and the town ascends the bank in orderly layers of red brick and tile. It is one of those perspectives that feels complete, as though the elements had always been arranged exactly this way. I could have stayed there for an hour, watching light move across the surface of the water.
Next to the cathedral stands the former episcopal palace, now home to the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum. I knew the posters — the dancers, the Parisian nights — but I did not expect the quieter works: tender drawings, portraits, early studies. Seeing them here, in the town where he was born, gives them a certain intimacy. The rooms are large, the walls thick, and the art seems to inhabit the space naturally. Nothing is strained. The museum feels like part of the city rather than an addition to it.
What most impressed me about Albi was its coherence. The materials speak to one another; the river and the architecture are in dialogue; the scale is human. The tourist office, surprisingly large and beautifully designed, fits the same pattern — practical, confident, and unpretentious. The city does not strain to impress you. It does not perform. It simply exists as itself, and that is enough.
I spent only a day in Albi, but the city stayed with me: the warmth of the brick, the shadowed interior of the cathedral, the quiet lunch in the market, the reflection of towers in the river. I had gone thinking it would be a pleasant excursion from Toulouse. I left thinking I could return quite easily, and perhaps stay longer. Some places whisper rather than shout, and linger in memory because of it. Albi is one of them.
Late afternoon light along the Garonne. The brick turns almost pink, and the reflections on the river are part of what makes Toulouse feel so open and relaxed.
Toulouse doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. France’s fourth-largest city has a way of revealing itself slowly—through the glow of its pink brick at sunset, the hum of its cafés, the youthfulness of its streets, and the golden light that pours across the Garonne River as if the whole city has turned its face toward the sun.
I had the privilege of visiting Toulouse as part of a group organized and led by Sarah Diligenti, Executive Director of the Alliance Française of Washington. She is a native of Toulouse, and her affection for the city is contagious. As a long-time member of the Alliance, it was a joy to see her hometown through her eyes. The experience felt less like tourism and more like being welcomed into someone’s place in the world.
The Beautiful Light Along the Garonne
If Paris has the Seine and Lyon the Rhône, Toulouse has the Garonne—and its light is different. Warmer. Wider. More relaxed.
Stand along the Quai de la Daurade in the late afternoon and you’ll see why photographers adore this river. The sun drops low, raking the facades of old brick warehouses and convents, and the water turns a deep metallic blue. The dome of La Grave seems to float. Couples sit on the steps. Friends carry bottles of wine. Life takes on a certain softness.
The Garonne begins high in the Spanish Pyrenees at the Pla de Beret and flows 529 kilometers northward through southwestern France before merging with the Dordogne to form the Gironde estuary, eventually emptying into the Atlantic near Bordeaux. Toulouse grew because of this river—because of its trade, its silt, its life—and the city still orients itself toward it.
After years of saying, “One day I’ll get a 13-inch MacBook Air,” I finally did it. Costco dangled a Black Friday deal in front of me, and—what can I say—I blinked first.
And you know what? I’m delighted.
This light blue MacBook Air is small, light, and honestly… adorable. It’s the kind of computer that makes you want to leave the house, wander to a coffee shop, and type something—anything—just because it’s fun to use. It slips into a bag without the usual negotiation about weight, bulk, or whether I really want to carry a laptop today.
No, it’s not the most powerful Mac in the lineup. And the screen isn’t the luscious, movie-theater-in-your-lap panel of the Pro models. But the battery just keepsgoing, the machine stays quiet, and it runs full Mac apps without complaining. Best of all, it has an actual, comfortable keyboard—something my iPad, as much as I enjoy it, never quite replaces.
After a few days with it, I’m left with a single question: why did I wait so long? Sometimes I don’t need the “Pro.” Sometimes I just want something light, friendly, and ready to go anywhere.
The MacBook Air is exactly that. And I think it’s going to get a lot of coffee shop miles. ☕️
