As the old SUV pitched back and forth up dirt switchbacks, I was glad to have combined a Dramamine with my standard Xanax taken for all things heights. Freed from the panic I would usually feel climbing a mountain in a vehicle questionably up to the task, I marveled at how this pharmacological one-two-punch was allowing me to not only survive this ride, but even enjoy the scenery.

The view outside the window was lush. Dense green forests of tropical plants, punctuated by colorful flowers and water trickling off ledges from above. What structures dotted the hills were simple. Thin columns of smoke rose from fires made for cooking, or burning trash. We climbed right and then left, right and left, up the hill to our home for the night at the Pousada de Maubisse, on the island of Timor-Leste.

Timor-Leste is a little nation with big history. Nestled among the Pacific Islands just north of Australia, it was long colonized by the Portuguese, and both Allied and Axis powers subsequently came through during WWII. The 1970s, 80s, and 90s brought a traumatizing occupation by Indonesia, followed by a bloody fight for independence. On May 20, 2002, Timor-Leste was officially declared an independent democratic republic. I was halfway around the world celebrating my twelfth birthday.

My visit to Timor-Leste in 2018 was the first place I’d ever visited that had brutal conflict in such recent collective memory. It was also the farthest away I’d ever been from home, and one of the first few times I’d traveled somewhere consequential for work. I had spent that week learning from more experienced colleagues around me: slightly older women who had seen more and done more. They had packed better than I had; they were easy travelers. I was absorbing and listening as much as I could, trying to not stick out in the Ann Taylor business attire I’d packed for a week on a tropical island. The learning curve for me that week was fascinatingly, if unnervingly, steep.

Having spent much of the trip conducting research in the coastal capital city of Dili, we were now driving into the interior of the country to stay the night in Maubisse, a hill-top town with some leftover colonial buildings from the Portuguese. One of these is the Pousada de Maubisse, a bed and breakfast greeting us at the top of the hill, all pink-and-white geometry set regally against the mountains. We arrived as the sun sank low in the sky, casting yellow and orange light across the property.

We tumbled out of the car and fanned out across the manicured gardens, each needing a moment alone after the two and a half hour drive. The property was encircled by a low concrete fence, matching the pink and white of the main building. I ambled over to the edge and looked out across the valley. Mist gathered in the nooks between the mountains. I could hear conversations, music, and all the evening Timorese sounds below blending in symphony and bouncing off the mountainsides, though as if at low volume on a stereo. I could smell the faint smoke from fires. After several days on the low coast, I felt an incredible sense of peace to have this view of the country from a height: this new perspective on life below.

We sat cross-legged on wooden benches by a fire in the garden, glasses of wine in hand. We talked about things we’d seen that week, about our lives, about relationships back home. Insecurities. These women to whom I’d felt so junior became softer, more accessible: just friends across the campfire. I could feel some inner tension release. Maybe it was the feeling of being so far from anywhere—from anyone—else in the world. On top of the hill in Maubisse, any other distinctions we may have otherwise carried felt irrelevant. It was just us.

A homemade dinner followed in the cozy main lodge around a wooden dining table, where conversation continued to flow. When it was dark we each walked back to our rooms, where I sank into a deep sleep under blankets in the chilly mountain air. I was on an island many people I know had never heard of, having one of the most memorable hotel experiences of my life.

True hospitality, true comfort, isn’t always about luxury as we tend to think of it. It’s about making someone feel genuinely welcome. At Pousada de Maubisse, I felt genuinely welcome, and during a week I really needed it. As we packed up the car to head back down the hill the following morning, I felt humbled with gratitude for the experience. I might very well have lived my whole life and never gotten here; never known anything about this place. What else might be out there that I’ve yet to know anything about?

Later that week, I was back in the coastal capital of Dili on my last day in Timor-Leste. I visited the Timorese Resistance Archive & Museum, alone. I walked through rooms tracing the long Timorese struggle for independence, and reflected on all I’d seen that week in Timor-Leste—the pain and the joy coexisting in every face, in every mountain, in every song of this little green island. It all amounted, it seemed, to something like hope.

On a lower part of the museum wall, I stopped and read a section of a poem by Fernando Sylvan, the Timorese writer and poet:

“Culture are the memories
of a people who refuse to die!
Action is the history
of a people who refuse to die!
Did you her me?
Did you hear me well?
Life is the freedom
of a people who refuse to die!
Independence is the craving
of a people who refuse to die!
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me well?
Justice is the endowment
of a people who refuse to die!
Struggle is the finding
of a people who refuse to die!
Did you hear me?
Did you hear me well?”

Fernando Sylvan
Maubere Manifesto
1982

Le Bonne Adresse

The Pousada Maubisse
5J52+MPC, Maubisse, Timor-Leste
Phone: +670 7533 1981

Once I got married but before I had a baby, I made a point every year of taking a long weekend away by myself. My preference was to spend this time in Paris, a place I know I can eat good food, stroll indiscriminately, see whatever art exhibits interest me, and smoke the odd cigarette while buzzed. But some years, for whatever reason, Paris was not possible. In these circumstances I looked around for the next best thing.

Such was the case in January 2023 when I landed in Québec City late on a quiet, snowy Friday. That year I was only able to get away for a few days, and figured nearer by was more prudent. My dad, who had been fighting cancer for several years, had just entered hospice and was rapidly weakening at home with my mom. It had been my parents who had inculcated in me a love of French Canada. Inveterate Francophiles and perennially cash strapped, they had honeymooned in Québec City. This scratched the French itch without having to leave the continent. They loved it instantly, and they took me back several times as I was growing up. I was eager to return now as an adult.

I gathered my things from the plane, got into a taxi with a Tunisian-Canadian driver, and we made our way through the quiet, dark streets to Auberge Saint-Antoine, my home for the next few days. The old town of Québec City has two parts: the upper town (Haute-Ville) and the lower town (Basse-Ville). They are connected by a funicular that takes only moments to ride. Auberge Saint-Antoine is in the Basse-Ville, on narrow cobble-stoned streets near the Saint Lawrence River. The walls are stone, the beds are fluffy and expensive-feeling, and each room is adorned with a historic artifact that helps tell the story of Old Québec. It is an intimate hotel that feels private without sacrificing any of the amenities of a larger property. It was perfect for this cozy weekend alone.

The next morning I woke up late, and bundled up tightly to walk the glorious, snowy streets. I walked through the old town, past the famous Château Frontenac, where my parents had stayed all those years ago (and seen then-President of France François Mitterrand in the lobby!). I watched enormous ice floes hurry down the Saint Lawrence river. Continuing down to the quirky Saint-Roch neighborhood, I peeked in window after window of antique stores. No longer able to resist buying a tea cup for my collection, I ducked into a small shop on Rue Saint-Joseph. The shopkeeper had been a lawyer many years ago, but started this shop at the urging of his wife, Michelle. As he was wrapping my tea cup and we were chatting precariously in my broken French, a woman walked in who clearly knew the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper encouraged me to chat with her, since “elle parle anglais!”. She confirmed that yes, she grew up in the anglophone Canadian province of Winnipeg, but had moved to QC long ago to be with her French-speaking husband. He had recently died of lung cancer. “That’s a bad one to have!” I blurted out insensitively, for whatever reason. But I told her I was truly sorry, and that my dad was battling cancer, too. She seemed to feel that I really was truly sorry, in the way that people who love people with cancer understand one another. “Well, I got two girls out of the deal. He lives on in them.”

Having walked all morning, I tucked into Restaurant La Buche for a late lunch. The atmosphere was bright and cheerful, and I was tucked at a two-top by the window. As I surveyed the menu I became aware that a live concert album of Céline Dion’s was playing throughout the restaurant. Like anyone who lived through 1997, I am aware of “My Heart Will Go On” and some of her work after that, but am less familiar with pre-Titanic Céline. A live version of (what I would later learn was) “Pour que tu m'aimes encore” pumped over the speakers, and what had begun as barely concealed head bobbing turned into full-throated singing and dancing from the entire waitstaff. One imagines this is what French Canadians might be doing behind closed doors, and I can now confirm it is. I loved the song and needed to have it immediately, as sometimes happens when you hear a song for the first time in a context that suits it perfectly. I had this happen once with Burna Boy’s “Last Last” floating down the canals of Xochimilco on a wooden boat in Mexico City. But that’s a story for another day.

Between ice skating in Place D’Youville, drinks at the Château Frontenac, and lots more shopping, I somehow found time for several opportunities to overeat French Canadian fare. One memorable meal was at Le Continental, a QC institution. I was splashing out with the selection of Québécois cheeses, steak and dessert flambéed tableside, and several glasses of tannic red wine. A lovely way to spend an evening in the snowy center of town. My waiter seemed delighted that a woman alone could pack away so much saturated fat, and after my many courses he brought a little digestif of maple liqueur, on the house. He also left his number on the back of my receipt. See ladies: men love an eater!

Another of these opportunities was at the completely perfect Aux Anciens Canadiens. For lunch they were offering a “menu formule” with choice of entrée, plat, dessert, and a glass of wine for about 40 Canadian dollars. A bargain. I was seated alone, but within earshot of a father and teenage daughter having lunch. They were on their annual ski trip, and the daughter had picked the location this year so she could practice her French, which she was doing with the waiter as her proud Dad looked on. The restaurant was mostly quiet and empty, aside from us three.

The food at Aux Anciens Canadien was delicious and classic, and I ended the meal by selecting “tarte au sucre” for dessert. I had remembered this tarte from my childhood: a sugary, sometimes maple-y pie endemic to these parts. One time when we were having dinner on a family trip in French Canada, Mom ordered two additional slices of tarte au sucre to take back to the room. This kind of gastronomic restraint was a regular feature of my family of origin. As my mom struggled to open the door to our hotel room while holding two plated slices of pie, my dad asked “Can I help you, Little Mary Two Pies?” We all dissolved in laughter in the hotel hallway, and my memory is that Mom peed her pants. She remained “Little Mary Two Pies” for many years thereafter.

Soon after I returned from Québec, my mom called to tell me dad was regularly falling, and she was unable to pick him up alone. I got in the car to go see them, Céline’s “Pour que tu m'aimes encore” still on repeat through my car speakers. It was the soundtrack to that whole next week, as dad was first in, then out of the hospital, and ultimately transferred to a bed in our living room. When I first arrived home, I sat by his side, chatting and holding his hand. He asked weakly about my trip, and I told him about my walks in the snow, the tartes au sucre, the Céline Dion. “We just love that place,” he said smiling. “I don’t know why, we just do.”

Dad passed away about a week later, at home with us. Reminiscing on the ineffable pleasures of Québec City was one of the last few cogent conversations I had with him. I’m grateful toward the end we were talking about a place he had such warm memories.

Les Bonnes Adresses:

Auberge Saint-Antoine Relais & Châteaux
8 Rue Saint-Antoine, Québec, QC G1K 3Z9, Canada
Phone: +1 418-692-2211

Restaurant La Buche
49 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 3Z2, Canada
Phone: +1 581-504-6894

Restaurant Aux Anciens Canadiens
34 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 4L6, Canada
Phone: +1 418-692-1627

Le Continental
26 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 3Y9, Canada
Phone: +1 418-694-9995

Restaurant Josephine Chéz Dumonet in Paris’ 6th arrondissement, the heart of the Latin Quarter, is like that for me. I stumbled upon it on a solo trip to Paris many years ago, and never visit the city now without making a pilgrimage.

To me, Josephine Chéz Dumonet is exactly the kind of place to go if you want to eat real French food, excellently prepared, in a classically French environment. The dining room is not large, but hides more tables than is immediately clear when you enter the narrow space. It is cozy, warm, and smells good. The waiters feel (and are) very French. It isn’t thronged with Americans. If you’re visiting Paris and want somewhere really Paris-y, this is the place.

I’ve been enough times now to know there are two menu items which are non-negotiable. The first is a langoustine appetizer, served in a buttery, citrusy, herbaceous sauce. The French and their sauces—God bless. You’ll be scooping up the remains with baguette.

The second is the Grand Marnier Soufflé, a towering, fluffy dessert served with an accompanying shot of Grand Marnier, the potent French orange liquor. At this point in the meal, you will already be near-drunk, and this will take things pleasantly over the top. This dessert is incredible. Make sure you order it at the start of the meal, which they require to ensure the soufflé is prepared in time. Drag your spoon along the very bottom to get all that caramelized sugar. Share if you must, but it’s not a requirement (I’d know).

Most often I’ve been here solo, savoring several courses and glasses of wine, alone with my thoughts. But I’ve now accumulated some special memories with people I love there, too. A few years ago, my husband’s sister and I took a week-long trip together to Paris. This was not only her first time in Paris, but her first time anywhere in Europe, and I was intent on showing her the many ecstatic pleasures contained therein. By the end of the meal, my teetotalling sister-in-law was drinking a kir and scraping up the remains of a substantial tarte tatin. My work here is done, I thought.

One time I walked leisurely over to Josephine Chéz Dumonet for lunch alone, a copy of Le Monde under my arm. I was seated outside on the sunny terrace, feeling hungry and joyful in a way I often feel on the streets of Paris alone. I ordered a rare steak with Béarnaise sauce, potatoes, and a glass of red wine. The waiter took this information in without any visible concern. I settled into Le Monde. A few minutes later, that same waiter walked out with an enormous slab of raw meat on a plate, and showed me (in front of the other terrace patrons) how BIG the cut I’d just ordered was. I’d describe his affect as a mix of admiration and horror. Maybe I had missed some kind of “for two” disclaimer with my limited French, but it felt too late in the game to change course. When it arrived it was still huge and perfectly cooked. It was deeply insane. I ate every bite.

When my son was nine months old, my husband and I took him on his first real vacation, to Belgium and France. The two-week trip ended in Paris, and a lunch at Josephine Chéz Dumonet on the final day was the only agenda item I was intent on keeping, in spite of my son’s mercurial moods and unpredictable naps. The trip had been wonderful but tiring: I had learned quickly that a “vacation” with a child is not really a vacation in the classical sense of the term, but more like parenting in another location. I was content but exhausted, and a little uneasy about how much my life had clearly changed, forever.

When we arrived at Josephine Chéz Dumonet for our lunch reservation, my son began to cry and fuss, as if on cue. Knowing how much I’d been looking forward to this, my husband quietly slipped outside with the stroller as I enjoyed my apéritif. He strolled slowly up and down Rue du Cherche-Midi until my son fell asleep. They were back inside by appetizers, and my son slept quietly the rest of my meal. I savored a lingering, wine-drenched lunch across from my kind and handsome husband; my beautiful son snoozing peacefully beside us. A moment you feel no one on earth could possibly be luckier than you.

La Bonne Adresse

Josephine Chéz Dumonet
117 Rue du Cherche-Midi
75006 Paris, France
Phone: +33 1 45 48 52 40

After a long week of work meetings in February I walked into the Galata neighborhood of Istanbul, climbed to the top floor of a trendy hotel, sat outside at a table for one in a bar with no other patrons, opened my turquoise Moleskine and wrote:

“What is there to say about the first sunny day in Istanbul, meetings behind me, time to myself, exploring nooks, crannies, and beautiful places…and now drinking wine, eating olives and nuts on the Forte Hotel rooftop overlooking all of Istanbul? How can one put into words the luck they must have to live this beautiful life, to see so much of the world and it’s people, to smell these smells and see this view: the Golden Horn, the boats in the Sea of Marmara, the Galata tower, the Bosphorus Strait, the beautiful mosques, the hills with Turkish homes, restaurants, cafes. Maybe the richest people in life have the depth of soul to appreciate the utter beauty and blessings around them all the time.”

Since I hadn’t had maybe two sips of wine at time of drafting this should speak to the pure awe and utter headiness you’ll experience should you be so lucky to visit this incredible city.

I didn’t even know then how much there was to discover. Later that weekend, I left my hotel on foot, winding down steep stone streets to Sa Va Anatolian Breakfast House. Turkish breakfast, a symphony of colors and textures, all conveyed in teensy bowls, is most often shared with others. It is one of those experiences for which the term “conviviality” exists. I was having it alone.

While indisputably too much food for one person, I luxuriated in scraping every last grain of sesame paste out of its little bowl with my fresh simit—a ring shaped sesame bread ubiquitous in this city—without needing to meet a tablemate’s gaze. Yes it’s a lot of little dishes. Olives, yogurt spreads, honeys, peppers. Yes you’ll want to try every single one.

As I’d gotten to Sa Va early, I had my choice of tables, and sat alone on the quiet, unassuming front porch. I watched as the morning stretched on and a line began to form. Waiters leaned up against the side of the restaurant (which feels more like a house), taking smoke breaks and sipping tea from Istanbul’s tulip-shaped glass teacups. In line I noticed a dad waiting, holding in his arms his daughter who must’ve been about three- or four-years old. In her hand was a full sized carrot, and she was stuffing it unrelentingly into her dad’s mouth. Both were in a fit of giggles as he did his best to chomp it down as quickly as she was stuffing.

Maybe it was the daddy daughter carrot thing, but I found myself fighting back tears as I neared the end of my meal. Every bite of this breakfast was so rich and delicious. Such care put into the presentation and experience, the depth of tradition on display. It was moving—the pleasure that had been infused in this daily ritual.

After breakfast at Sa Va I needed a walk, and Istanbul is a perfect place to explore on foot. It being February, vendors were roasting chestnuts on the corners. The sky was in turns gray, adding a moody ambiance to this hilly, richly layered center of the world. In a sunnier moment I took the ferry across the Strait to the “Asian side”, a neighborhood called Kadıköy. Seagulls swarmed our boat, dipping and diving across our wake. I had heard about a market in Kadıköy where locals buy produce, fish, olives, and can sit for a casual meal.

I walked around vibrant Kadıköy, watching families enjoy fried fish and tea. Quietly I thanked the universe I hadn’t stayed only on the “European side”, missing this whole slice of Istanbul life. Eventually I turned down a covered passageway which turned out to be lined with book sellers. Ducking into one, I discovered the books were all antiques. I bought two intricately decorated Qurans, one in Ottoman Turkish and one in French. As I was paying I commented that the books were beautiful. He responded that the customer was beautiful. Immediately I regretted not buying more Qurans from this discerning vendor.

It’s worth mentioning I became a certifiable Turkish delight addict this trip. Walking home each night of my ten-day trip, concerned somehow that I might be running low on the tin of desserts I’d purchased the night previous, I’d find an excuse to duck into one of the many Turkish delight shops, treats piled high in the window. My favorites came from MADO and Hafız Mustafa 1864 Pera. Each new tin was a jewel box, almost as much fun to look at as to eat.

If you are person who longs to ingest every fascinating corner of this earth, you cannot miss Istanbul. Visit the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, of course, walk the streets of the Çukurcuma neighborhood, have a hammam (or three). Drink raki. End a day with dinner at Ali Ocakbaşı in Karaköy, watching the sun go down over the Golden Horn. Have a strong, gritty Turkish coffee at a café table by yourself as cats laze nearby. Civilizations converged here as trade, people, and history passed through this city on the water, century after century. Istanbul contains the history of the world and it’s peoples in its hills. You can feel it in every step. In every bite.

In a later moment from my Moleskine, I wrote:

“I don’t know if the perfect day exists, but if it does, this is one.”

Istanbul will do that to you.

Les Bonnes Adresses

Sa Va Anatolian Breakfast House
Cihangir, Bakraç Sk. No: 34 A D:B, 34433 Beyoğlu/İstanbul, Türkiye
Phone: +90 541 388 16 46

Kadıköy market
Caferağa, Muvakkıthane Cd. No:18, 34710 Kadıköy/İstanbul, Türkiye

Ali Ocakbaşı (Karaköy location)
Grifin Han, Tersane Caddesi, Kardeşim Sk. No:45, 34420 Beyoğlu/İstanbul, Türkiye
Phone: +90 212 293 10 11

MADO (several locations, but this was mine)
Cvk Hotels, Gümüşsuyu, Sıraselviler Cd. No:11, 34437 Beyoğlu/İstanbul, Türkiye
Phone: +90 212 249 3347

Hafız Mustafa 1864 Pera (several locations, but this was mine)
Kuloğlu, İstiklal Cd. No:121, 34433 Beyoğlu/İstanbul, Türkiye
Phone: +90 505 188 4834

Café reading:

From Life Itself: Turkey, Istanbul, and a Neighborhood in the Age of Erdoğan
By Suzy Hansen

The high tea that first got me hooked on high tea was at the Empress Hotel on Victoria Island in British Columbia. I was 11 and my parents had taken me on a cross-country road trip from our small town in Connecticut all the way to the other side of the continent. This had been an especially eventful drive as I got my first period somewhere around the Dakotas. I’m nearly certain it had nothing to do with the tea.

I remember sitting at a sunny table by the window at the Empress, across from my parents, as a server set down a tiered silver tray, teapots, and teacups. I took a scone onto my plate, and dipped my knife into a small pot of clotted cream, spreading it carefully on my scone before doing the same with seedy strawberry jam. Even as a kid, I appreciated the sophisticated pleasure of it—a pause in one’s afternoon simply to eat delicate sandwiches and warm tea in very beautiful, very breakable porcelainware.

I have been chasing that experience ever since the afternoon at the Empress. Given the vast cultural reach of the British Isles—colonial tentacles extending to nearly every corner of the globe—I’ve had thoroughly pleasant high tea experiences in many places around the world. If there’s tea to be had, I’m usually having it.

It is useful, however, to start at the source. All the grand dame hotels in London offer high tea. One rainy, November afternoon I scurried across the street alone to the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair, dodging loudly-colored Maseratis and Lamborghinis out front, a reminder of how even London’s most classic properties have become playgrounds for the global rich. I ducked out of the rain and into the hotel lobby. On the left is the sunroom where the Connaught hosts their teas. I’m there to enjoy tea for one.

Much like dining alone, or having a drink alone at a bar, high tea alone presents a particular sort of confidence-inducing pleasure. A tea pot for one, a tiered platter with one type of each finger sandwich, a single teacup. What the experience lacks in conviviality it makes up for in peace. It’s meditation for caffeinated people. I pull out the newspaper.

I ordered the tea that comes with a flute of champagne, as is generally my want. It being November, the tiered tray of sandwiches and cakes had a distinctly holiday flair: little snowmen cookies, red and green petit fours. I sipped tea and champagne alone, as the London rain fell on the sunroom roof overhead. What could be cozier than this very moment, nibbling at my pleasingly flavorful and fastidiously de-crusted sandwiches? The English take some amount of shit for being stuffy, and perhaps you could point to this staid exercise as evidence. But I think that’s a misread. This is a well-worn tradition that is, at its root, about care.

Tea comforts. I have so often been in hotel rooms around the world and found a balm of familiarity by flicking on the room’s tea kettle and brewing a cuppa. It provides a spot of luxury even in decidedly un-luxurious circumstances. It’s a tip of one’s cap to the soul.

Tea warms, which can be important in often-damp England but is just as edifying in hotter climes. One of my favorite teas in the world is at the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town, South Africa, nicknamed “The Nellie”. I went for tea there the first time I ever visited Cape Town. The tea service is set in an elegant room in the blush-pink colonial hotel, against the stunning backdrop of Table Mountain. Cape Town is a city unlike any other, and this delectable tea service (spread out as buffet) is rooted deeply in the specific beauty of the place. I have been back for tea at the Nellie every trip since.

During that first visit to South Africa, my mom was hanging on every update I relayed home. She had never been to South Africa—or anywhere in Africa, for that matter. She was the kind of parent who lived vicariously through every experience I had, big or small. This was in part because she was intensely curious, but she was also genuinely happy for me as I acquired each new glimpse of the world. She knew how happy those kinds of experiences made her and seemed to delight in knowing how happy they would make me. When I came home raving about South Africa, my Christmas gifts that year all became South Africa-themed. Among them was a book called “I Had Tea at the Nellie”: a slim volume documenting all the many personalities who had been through the Mount Nelson Hotel for tea over the years. Now I was one of them.

That tea at the Nellie was many years ago now. More recently, in December 2024, my mom came to visit us for Christmas. I had just had my first baby, my son, five months before. Mom was weak from cancer treatments, and we were all missing my dad who had passed away a few years prior. But still, it was the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Together with only the people I love most (my son, my husband, my dear mom) laughing, listening to Christmas music, and opening presents. Pajamas. Nowhere to be. I couldn’t imagine a better day.

Mom handed me my Christmas gift. With my new son sitting in my lap, I untied the ribbon and realized it was a new tea cup for my collection. The dainty white porcelain was decorated ornately with gold script, and bore only one word: “Mother”.

That was our last Christmas together, as mom passed away six months later. I look at my “Mother” teacup now as a small porcelain monument to all she gave me. It was Mom that had introduced me to this beautiful tradition many decades ago, sitting across from 11-year old me at the Empress Hotel, explaining clotted cream, having just shepherded me through my first period. She opened my world in a million ways since then. She comforted and guided me in a million ways since, too. She was always warm, always a safe place to land and learn. I hope I can live her example, even a little bit, as a mother to my son. My son: the little boy condemned to a life of tea parties with his mother.

Les Bonnes Adresses

The Empress Hotel (now the Fairmont Empress)
721 Government St
Victoria, BC V8W 1W5, Canada
Phone: +1 250 384 8111

The Connaught Hotel
Carlos Place
London W1K 2AL, United Kingdom
Phone: +44 20 7499 7070

The Mount Nelson Hotel
76 Orange St, Gardens
Cape Town, 8001, South Africa
Phone: +27 21 483 1000

I visited Lebanon for the first time during one busy work week in February 2019. I had very little time to explore on my own, but even so the taste I’d had of Lebanon that week—beautiful, complicated Lebanon—was plenty to get me hooked. I was immediately in love, missing Lebanon before I’d even left. The night before I was to fly home on an early morning flight, I sat out on my Beirut hotel balcony, drinking red wine from the nearby Beqaa Valley and playing “Le Beirut” from my cellphone speaker. Fairuz crooned in Arabic lyrics I couldn’t understand but could somehow still feel in my body:

To Beirut
A greeting from my heart to Beirut
kisses to the sea and to the houses
to a rock, which is like an old sailor’s face
She is a wine made from peoples’ spirit
From peoples’ sweat, she’s bread and jasmine
So how did her taste turn into
the taste of fire and smoke?

Even during such a busy  week, I  knew that Lebanon had grabbed a fistful of my heart and would never let it go. I had only scratched the surface. I needed to bring everyone I loved to Lebanon. It ached to leave.  

Luckily I soon returned. Lebanon hugs you immediately when you arrive—lets you know you could be nowhere else. The salty, fresh hang of the Mediterranean, cut with smoke. Fresh kibbeh nayyeh (raw lamb mixed with bulgar wheat, onion, and spices) drenched in olive oil and adorned with onion, radish and mint at Abd el Wahab restaurant in the Achrafieh neighborhood. The breeze at my table-for-one under a canopy at Enab restaurant, the lazy swirl of shisha over my head as labneh arrives. Nuts with the shells on accompanying my Almaza beer. Walking down narrow, old stone streets; beautiful people speaking Arabic, punctuated every so often by a French word. The sunshine, the cedars. The breathtaking emotion of the flag. A place that has met with every sadness and difficulty over its long history, and yet here it remains: in all its technicolor beauty, passionate as ever—a feast for each sense.  

I even love the airport. My passport stamped at customs by a handsome Lebanese security officer, who (seeing my previous stamps) asks politely if I have a boyfriend in Lebanon. I don’t, but it’s nice to be asked. The smell of the heavy, electric air when you step outside to get a taxi, out into the Beiruti night, looking ahead and to your right at the glittering surrounding hills. When leaving to return home, eating a warm, cheesy, parting knafeh at the airport shop. Frantically snapping up bags of nuts, za’atar and sweets to take back home as gifts. Trying to bring some of the magic home to share, and knowing no amount of nuts can transport the feeling one gets here—only here.

Up north in Tripoli, closer to the Syrian border, is a wholly different experience than the Lebanese capital in Beirut. The drive up the coastal road hugs the sparkling sea. My hotel of choice in Tripoli is an old, stately home on a quiet street in the Mina district: Via Mina. It has a spiral wooden staircase in the center and always smells like jasmine soap. Every morning, breakfast is served on the peaceful front terrace: labneh, pita, sweet sesame paste, shanklish, za’atar…eggs and cappuccino on request. 

It is Tripoli that has mostly brought me back to Lebanon for work. Tripoli is home to many Syrian refugees, and my work here supported a project researching violence against refugee women and girls. That project took me to Tripoli neighborhoods quite different than the peaceful bougainvillea-ed terrace of my hotel. A fifteen-minute drive from Via Mina are streets pockmarked with bullet holes, painful reminders of the neighborhood sectarian conflicts between Alawite and Sunni Muslims.

I am a Lebanon novice, and probably always will be. I know, generally speaking, so little about the place--maybe disproportionately little to love it as much as I do.  Since I’ve started traveling to Lebanon I’ve shared with so many my affection for it, including Lebanese colleagues and friends. These friends will politely listen, agree, and sometimes gently remind me that- as singularly enthralling as it is-Lebanon is a complex place, not easily summed up by its beauty or food. It is my privilege to dive into it for a couple weeks, enjoy some of Lebanon’s best features--drink the wine, roam the streets, smoke the shisha--and leave without contending much with the more difficult ones. In the months following my last visit,  large-scale protests broke out across the country in response to corruption, high unemployment and a flagging economy. My beloved Enab restaurant, with the shisha and the olive oil-drenched labneh- seems to have moved or disappeared following the August 2020 blast in the port, a result of many tons of ammonium nitrate being improperly stored. Over 200 people died. And now, of course, Lebanon is embroiled in the broader conflicts lit like wildfires across the Middle East.

Lebanon is not straight-forward. But there is much, much, much to love. It is maybe best suited to those who luxuriate in gray areas. As Lebanon punctuates our news cycles with images of violence and despair, I am thinking also of the Lebanon I’ve met. The Lebanon I hope very much I can one day show my husband and two-year-old son. The Lebanon that introduced me to a new phase of my own life, one where I could never un-know the pleasures of this part of the world. A teensy strip of land on the sea where the most potent earthly forces, sacred and profane, have converged for millennia.

Since when does a place have to be perfect to be loved? Since when do any of us?

Les Bonnes Adresses:

Abd el Wahab Restaurant
VGQ5+7P9، الناصرة
Beirut, Lebanon
Phone: +961 1 200 550

Via Mina Hotel
Farah Antoun, Al Mina
Tripoli, Lebanon
Phone: +961 6 222 227

Which is why when my best friend Lauren and I were trying to figure out where to spend a girls’ weekend—a rarity now that we’re both grown-ups with kids—Los Angeles was a surprisingly satisfying answer. Sunny, near the water. Far enough to feel like a real getaway but without the heavier lift of international travel. I had been to California before but never to Los Angeles, my country’s second biggest city. The city eternally compared (rarely favorably) against New York: my first and forever love.

I figured I’d at least enjoy the weekend, particularly how we were planning to do it. We booked a luxury convertible to get around and a swanky room on the water in Santa Monica. Alright, I said to myself, even if all the New York-y stereotypes you’ve heard about LA are true (the vapidness, the traffic, the obsession with “wellness”)--who can’t enjoy a few days on the beach?

But I didn’t merely enjoy myself. I loved my weekend in LA. I spent the entire weekend turning to Lauren (also New York born), saying “I get it!”. And I do. There were many wonderful moments Lauren and I had together that I could describe in more detail here: driving the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down, drinking luxury smoothies with ludicrous ingredients, laughing so hard I peed on the Santa Monica Pier roller coaster. Visiting key filming locations from The O.C. All of that is worth doing.

But below I’ve condensed my recommendations down to just one day—one breakfast, one lunch, one dinner, one sleep. None of these are groundbreaking recommendations. None “hidden gems”. If you love to travel you may have heard of most or all of these places. But my God, are they good. Not overhyped; really, truly, deeply pleasurable—and beloved for good reason.

This is my perfect day in west LA:

You wake up under expensive sheets at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. Yesterday when you arrived at Shutters and made the final turn down Pico Boulevard, and were confronted with the expansive Pacific shimmering before you—something in you unhooked. Do people really live every day amongst this much natural beauty? Shutters is perched right on the Pacific Ocean, and pays careful attention to every detail. It is a luxury property in every sense of the word, with the feel of a private beach cottage. It is understated, beautiful, and perfect. Yes, you think. This was the right choice.

You’re up early since you’re still on East Coast time, which is great news because you’ll be first in line to get what’s warm at bread + butter. It’s about a 15 minute walk from your hotel, and luckily you can do most of that walk on the beach pathway. It’s December, the perfect time to visit as far as you’re concerned. It is warm and sunny, but still pleasantly chilly in the morning and evening. Great weather for a walk.

The smell greets you first as you approach bread + butter. You’re leaning sweet, so you order a chocolate croissant. Luckily you’ve goaded your friend into a ham and cheese croissant so you can have also have a bite of something savory. Lattes all around, and you take seats on the small patio outside. The chocolate croissant is still warm and impossibly buttery, with melted chocolate oozing out your bite hole. The ham and cheese is no less rich, fresh and luxurious. For all you’ve heard about Angelenos’ carb-phobia: you are pleasantly surprised by this indulgent start to the day.

You and your friend lumber back to the hotel along the sun-flecked Pacific. You leave the paved path and walk on the sand closer to the water’s edge—maybe take off your shoes and dip your toes into the seafoam. You sit for a while and catch up about things, and—depending on the friend—let your proximity to the vast ocean lead you into deeper, more personal topics. You reflect on how you feel now that you’ve lost both your parents; she opens up about struggling to conceive. You remember why it’s so important to make time for these kinds of weekends with your friends.

Before you know it, it’s lunchtime. You’d long ago nabbed a lunch reservation at Nobu Malibu up the coast, having all your life heard about it on the Kardashians, in the pages of People Magazine and in Drake lyrics. The valet at Shutters brings around your convertible and you tie a scarf around your hair for the drive as if you’re Grace Kelly. You are not Grace Kelly, and this is an old, stained yellow scarf you found in your mother’s attic. No matter. Today you are in a BMW convertible driving in the LA sunshine for lunch at Nobu Malibu, and no one can touch you.

You arrive and are struck immediately by the view. Nobu is really *on* the beach. On the back porch of the restaurant, it’s like you...and then the Pacific. Waves lapping almost right up to your table. You and your friend get a low slung table right at the edge of the patio. At first you are attentive to the potential celeb sightings. But midway through your first lychee martini you have trouble pulling your eyes away from the ocean. The ocean has always had that effect on you: any opportunity you have to be looking at it, in it, beholding it—you take.

You order a bunch of little yummy things to share, none yummier than the crispy rice with spicy tuna. Famous apparently but new to you: a spread of spicy tuna atop rich, crispy beds of rice. As with all great bites, it’s about the juxtaposition of textures, the delicate nature of the flavor combinations: bright and fatty, crunchy with smooth. Before you’re done with the first round you order another battery of spicy tuna delights.

For as fancy as you’d assume Nobu Malibu would be, given how famous it’s been for how long—you’re surprised at how laid back everyone seems. It feels like an elegant, relaxed, beautiful afternoon on the Pacific. No one’s in a rush. Everyone’s there to enjoy. Actually, this has surprised you a lot about LA. All these famous addresses, and somehow the ability to maintain a casual atmosphere. Everyone seems sort of...relaxed. As if this kind of proximity to sun and sea just tells everyone: “what is there, really, to worry that much about?”

On the drive back to Shutters you remember one thing people have to worry about here: the Pacific Palisades lie vacant, razed nearly entirely to the ground following the recent fires. A coveted community on the shimmering coast rendered a charred hillside. The juxtaposition of that apocalyptic scene is hard to hold together with the beauty of the ocean and palm trees.

With an afternoon to kill, you can no longer not get in the sea. You know it will be cold, but you’ve been so close to it all day, and now you just want to be in it. You and your friend go down to the beach with hotel towels, and you can hardly wait to shimmy off your sundress and run into the waves, dunking your head in the icy surf, sputtering and thrashing like a kid. Your own kid is across the country, and you don’t get very many opportunities to be weightless in the sea anymore. To be without restriction, without responsibility.

Before dinner, you take advantage of the Shutters bar: a fabulous place to watch a Santa Monica sunset. You’ve seen the sunset the last few nights, and you’ve seen sunsets many times before. But this is just ridiculous. You can’t take your eyes off of it—the orange orb lazily fainting behind the horizon, between the shadowed palms. The whole coast is alight in blues, oranges, and yellows as you sip a California red. Just one though, because you have one last stop today and you want to be thirsty.

You heard about Giorgio Baldi in a magazine long ago and took a mental note: it is Rihanna’s favorite restaurant in LA, maybe in the world. She loves it so much, she sometimes orders several pastas. You figure Rihanna is a woman who understands pleasure-seeking, and decide that if you’re ever in LA you will make it a point to eat at Giorgio Baldi. Well, now is that time.

The restaurant is smaller than you’d imagine for somewhere so well known. It is dark, mostly lit by candles, giving it an intimate and romantic feel. You’re here with your best friend and in the mood to have a long, wine-drenched dinner, where you talk about all kinds of stuff. That, too, is romance—a kind that has become increasingly important to you as you age.

To your delight, everyone working here seems actually to be Italian. They are warm, cheerful, and invested in you having an evening as lovely as this restaurant. Some bread arrives topped with gossamer-thin, warmed prosciutto on top. You’ve never had prosciutto served warm like that, fat ever so slightly rendered and melting. You wonder why more people don’t serve it that way—why there isn’t warm prosciutto topping bread across the country, across the world. Pastas are ordered, agnolottis and bucatinis, and they are as decadent and satisfying as Rihanna promised. And you do get one of those long, perfect conversations with your best and oldest friend. By the time you return back to the comfort of your Shutters room, you feel fed in many ways. And grateful.

Days later on the plane home, you reflect on the deep peace that set within you there, the kind of peace only some real engagement with the ocean can achieve. You still don’t feel a pull to live on the West Coast, but you can understand how someone would. That ability to wake up and dunk your body in the crashing waves. To run in with your arms spread wide, turning your back to the shore and looking out into oblivion like you’re the only person on earth. An emissary to whatever is out there beyond. To be carried along weightless by the waves, to remember you are just one in billions of billions, and to find that comforting.

You think about a time in the future when you come back with your husband and son. Your little boy giggling on the Santa Monica Pier; you and your husband sipping a drink at the Shutters bar at sunset. All together, running into the ocean, arms outstretched, backs to the shore--to the world--like it’s only us.

Les Bonnes Adresses:

bread + butter
2645 Main St, Santa Monica, CA 90405
Phone: (310) 394-0568

Nobu Malibu
22706 Pacific Coast Hwy, Malibu, CA 90265
Phone: (310) 317-9140

Giorgio Baldi
114 W Channel Rd, Santa Monica, CA 90402
Phone: (310) 573-1660

Shutters on the Beach
1 Pico Blvd, Santa Monica, CA 90405
Phone: (310) 458-0030