I didn’t expect to start writing this on Thanksgiving Day—in the passenger seat of my parents’ car, somewhere between the East Bay and Marin, on our way to dinner with our cousins. But maybe it’s fitting. Holidays have a way of bringing up feelings about home, family, and what remains when the people who shaped us are no longer here.

Hi, I’m Emily. After more than 20 years in marketing, I realized I wanted a different kind of life—one built on travel, creativity, and a deeper connection to the world. A trip to Spain in 2023 planted the first seed, and since then I’ve been reshaping my life step by step: rediscovering photography, returning to writing, and following a very persistent pull toward Spain.

After three weeks of traveling alone, joining a tour felt like an exhale I didn’t know I needed. I’d been solo before—Spain, Portugal, Scotland, Chile—but something about this stretch in Peru wore on me differently. Maybe it was the developing-country realities (don’t drink the water or eat the street food, stay diligent with altitude sickness prevention). Maybe it was the language gap. Maybe I was tired of being alone with my thoughts. Maybe it was simply time.

Puno, Peru makes Arequipa feel like a major urban city. The drive from Juliaca Airport—about an hour through the dry, cluttered landscape—reminded me of Atacama, Chile at first, but the resemblance faded quickly. Here, the roads felt closer, the air windier, the scene more crowded. Half-finished brick homes leaned into one another, tangled power lines framed the horizon, older cars rumbled and sputtered, and dogs darted between them like they owned the place. And the air—so heavy at night, thick with smoke that lingered long after dusk.

Life in Arequipa, Peru feels simple. In the city’s historic center—a UNESCO World Heritage Site—white colonial buildings glow against the Andean light, their iron balconies twisting into delicate patterns above cobblestone streets. Families fill the plazas and walkways—children chasing pigeons, grandparents resting on benches in the shade. They savor the little things: ice cream at any hour of day, gathering in the Plaza de Armas to sit in the sun, lingering over late lunches that stretch easily into afternoon.

The one thing that stands out to me most about Valparaíso is color. It’s everywhere I look. No wall is untouched—seriously. Art lives on every surface: sides of buildings, retaining walls, construction fences, doors, even stairs—the many, many stairs that carry you from one neighborhood to another.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my hotel’s little restaurant in San Pedro de Atacama, sipping a complimentary glass of sparkling wine after another long tour day. Frank Sinatra is crooning in the background. An older couple two tables away is playing dice, laughing so hard that she snorts. It makes me smile—this small moment of warmth and humanity at the edge of the desert. Cozy. Real. Exactly what I needed after days of early mornings, cold, dry air, and relentless sun—the kind that leaves your lips cracked and your nose rebelling. I’ve been guzzling water just to keep up. Because truthfully, I’m exhausted. Again.

As you drive into Torres del Paine, you’re struck by the sheer grandeur—the otherworldly beauty, the majesty—of the mountains rising before you. Majesty can be defined as impressive beauty, scale, or stateliness. I’d never thought much about the word, other than “your majesty.” But standing there, it felt fitting. These mountains reign over the lakes, the fields, the guanaco, and all of us who have come to witness their quiet command of this landscape.

In Patagonia, our mornings went something like this: the night before, over dinner, our instructor would outline the next day’s plan. There was always a sunrise shoot—because why not? The views off our doorstep were predictably breathtaking, every direction a postcard. The only unpredictable thing was the weather.

As we wrap up our last full day on Rapa Nui, I find myself thinking again about what it might be like to live here. It would be a simple life—one free of the material trappings of American society. Maybe one more balanced—the environment, humans, and animals co-existing comfortably. Respectfully.

The first full day of the Nikon photography workshop began before dawn on Rapa Nui—better known as Easter Island. We woke in the darkness and climbed into the van, headed to Ahu Tongariki to photograph its fifteen Moai statues at sunrise. I don’t normally set an alarm for sunrise. I’ve never been that person. But this time felt different.

Perfection. I’ve chased it my whole life—at work, in relationships, even in the way I communicate. But this journey is teaching me to let go. To see how perfection, instead of fueling confidence, often drains it—and along with it, happiness.

The Castle View is simple, but deeply comfortable—like home. At the entrance, a little sign hangs from the staircase banister: Smile, Giggle, Be Silly. It sets the tone instantly—playful, warm, and welcoming—before you even climb the stairs to your room. For years, I thought I was strictly a “hotel-only” traveler—drawn to the predictability and distance hotels provide. But these sweet B&Bs are changing my mind. I might be a convert.

Last night and this morning, I found myself in an internal struggle—an argument with myself. Yesterday, with sunshine finally breaking through the clouds, I packed it all in. Eight-plus hours on the road, plus two epic hikes—around five miles total—to the Old Man of Storr (my favorite experience so far) and the Quiraing. I crammed in as much as I could to take advantage of the weather gift I’d been given. Grateful? Absolutely. Exhausted? Completely.

While walking through the beautiful woodlands of Glencoe, I breathed in the crisp, clean air, enjoyed the rare warmth of the sun (finally no rain!!!), and savored being outside with nothing to worry about for the next hour or so.

Today I took a day trip from Oban to the Isle of Mull—and then onward to the tiny Isle of Iona. None of it went according to plan—and that turned out to be just right.

Glasgow has been a pleasant surprise—gritty, real, and filled with unexpected beauty. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but compared to Edinburgh, which feels polished and touristy, Glasgow is more lived in. More approachable. Like Oakland is to San Francisco.

I arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland, with no expectations—only the desire to follow the slowly illuminating path I began in 2023. That year revealed what was missing in my life; 2024 brought it into focus. Now here I am: on my first trip within this new life I’m creating—taking the leap into a five-week Scotland journey.