I’m in a red-lit room surrounded by chiseled, sweaty bodies. Everyone’s skin glistens under the crimson light, their expressions border on euphoric as they become entranced by the heat and sensual dance hits pulsing through the hi-fi speakers.

There’s not a phone in sight. No one is taking mirror selfies. No one is filming themselves having a good time instead of actually having one. No one has their head slung low, staring into the void.

Instead, everyone is present. (Whatever that word means these days.)

It feels something like…

Paradise.

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So much so that some people have their eyes closed and are completely lost in the moment. Others are wide-eyed, pupils dilated, not wanting to miss a thing.

Between deep breaths and intermittently wiping sweat from my brow, I notice there are some devastatingly hot men in here. I’m with my girlfriends, so it’s obvious what happens next.

We chat, we laugh, we flirt. But it’s intense—hot, steamy, full on. That’s why, every so often, one of us steps outside for a breath of fresh air.

It may sound like I could be in any bar in any city, but I’m not.

I’m in a bathhouse.

My friends and I aren’t overheated from dancing too much in some dimly lit, apocalyptically seedy nightclub. None of us are electrocuting our serotonin receptors while blazing through bottles of booze and packs of cigarettes. (Or eliciting dilated pupils for a very different reason!)

We’re overheated from a sauna delivering red-light therapy—we’re building up our cells instead of ripping them to shreds, deflating our bodies instead of puffing them up like balloons, stimulating our collagen instead of creating wrinkles no injectable could smooth.

If you asked me if any of this was possible when I was in my 20s (when my favorite night out was dancing in a packed Brooklyn dance hall and accepting free tequila shots), I wouldn’t have laughed in your face—only because I wouldn’t have understood anything you were saying.

Back then, when I was ready to have a fling or start a new relationship, the concept of a bathhouse wouldn’t have entered my brain. What I did was simple. I went out—to swanky hotel lobbies, wine bars, nightclubs.

But today, it seems nearly everyone who is single, whether in their 20s or 50s, relies less on chance and more on apps to pre-ordain their fate. Part of the shift, at least for those who care about their health, is that going out doesn’t hold the same appeal it once did.

A certain class of modern philosopher (aka internet coach) blames the decline in partying and drinking, along with the rise of dating apps, for why young people are single and aren’t having sex. But I think it’s more nuanced.

Let’s start with health.

I love feeling hot and healthy. So when it’s implied that I need to go out and trash my body in order to meet someone, I’d rather… not.

Don’t get me wrong, I love having drinks with friends and going out dancing and generally love keeping it chill and casual, but the older I get, the more even casual drinking leaves me feeling like shit. So there’s that. (Unless I’m in Italy, where, for two months straight, I can effectively drink a bottle of wine every day at lunch without even a hint of a hangover.)

Now let’s talk dating apps.

Dating apps tend to go something like this: You’re cautiously optimistic and feel ready to date. You download your poison of choice: Bumble, Hinge, Raya, Tinder. You start swiping. You may go on a date or two, then a pattern emerges. Many people you eventually meet bear almost no resemblance to the edited photos on their profile, which they probably took eons ago, or their relationship goals say marriage, then they try to pitch you on ethical non-monogamy. (Surprise, they’re already married!) I’m being dramatic, but you get the point.

Then there’s the general algorithmic fatigue that swiping creates.

Scrolling through humans and assessing them the same way you do brands of magnesium supplements in your Amazon cart is unnatural. Being passed over, or passing on others, in such alarming quantities is unnatural.

It’s causing us to lose our humanity.

If by some miracle we do actually like the person we met on Hinge, more often than not, if they do one tiny thing we don’t like, or vice versa, it’s just one block, one unmatch, to make it all go away, like they were never part of your planet.

If you meet someone you like and it’s mutual—fantastic, you’ve won the lottery.

If you don’t, well… at best you’ll escape the perils of dating app hell relatively unscathed.

Before you come for me, I have friends who have met their husbands and wives on dating apps. Sometimes great things happen on dating apps. I’m not saying they’re inherently bad. I’m saying it feels dehumanizing to take such a premeditated approach to dating. I adore men and dating and I loveeeee romance! Just the real kind, not the kind that’s so… premeditated.

Dating apps simply provide too much information to take in before you ever meet someone. You get an entire dossier on a person (probably written by ChatGPT) and an idea of how they look naked, but absolutely no intel on their aura. They tell us everything about someone except what it feels like being around them.

So here’s where that leaves us…. Most people don’t want to feel like shit from partying, and dating apps have become increasingly cringe. (I don’t care how hard that dating coach you pay $1,000 per session tries to convince you otherwise. You can’t really “manifest” your way out of this.)

Which means one thing: In today’s modern dating hellscape, something, someone, somewhere has to step in as a solution so we’re not left choosing between relying on nightlife to meet people in the wild or preserving our health while outsourcing our romantic lives to an algorithm.

Bathhouses.

They could be the bright light we all need.

In a bathhouse, there’s no curation. You’re hopping from sauna to cold plunge to steam room to tea room, exposed not only in the body sense, but in the character sense. You basically answer all those Hinge prompts IRL—because you’re casually demonstrating exactly what your mind and your body can do under stress.

How do you handle discomfort?

How do you act when your phone isn’t glued to your hand?

Can you be at peace with sitting still for more than five seconds?

Must you display dominance by man-spreading or by loudly debriefing your entire dating life with your friend like no one else is there?

Or do you keep a respectful volume, sink back, and recognize it’s a shared space?

And for the love of god, do you have enough confidence to strike up a conversation with a stranger when you’re sober?

A dating profile can tell us what you say you value.

A bathhouse lets us watch you embody it.

As the world becomes increasingly preoccupied with health and longevity—with peptides and protein, sleep scores and recovery protocols—our social lives are shifting. While some experts see this as the end of love and lust, I disagree.

Bathhouses, in particular, offer so much of what the nightclub of yesteryear once did: darkness, heat, exposed skin, strangers, a certain innate eroticism. And they’re popping up in nearly every major city worldwide.

Now, instead of destroying our bodies together, we’re building them up together—maybe not to live forever, but at least well enough to fuck better.

Bathhouses can and should replace dating apps. Let’s start a movement.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’ve pitched your favorite magazines dozens of times with little to no success. Let me guess: you probably spent hours crafting the perfect email to send to your dream publication, convinced an editor would love your idea. All you heard back was… crickets.

Or perhaps you did hear back from an editor, but they passed on your pitch and you have no clue why.

It’s not just you. And that’s where I come in.

I went to journalism school, and nobody taught me how to pitch a story, either. I had to learn how to be a successful freelance writer on my own. That’s why—after over 12 years of being a freelance writer—I am sharing my method of pitching editors so novice writers and rising journalists alike can break into the world of freelance writing and build fun, sustainable creative careers like mine.

In case we haven’t met, I’m Michaela Trimble, a freelance writer and author who has spent over a decade writing about travel, design, wellness, and spirituality for T: The New York Times Style Magazine, Vogue, Condé Nast Traveler, The Wall Street Journal, Travel + Leisure, W Magazine, TIME, and other leading publications. When I’m not reporting features or writing fiction, I teach online writing workshops and host immersive creative retreats.

Now, I’m bringing that curriculum to Substack.

I’ll share my start-to-finish roadmap for writers who want to get published in magazines and digital outlets.

Clients who came to me with little to no experience have since gone on to publish their work in some of the world’s top publications.

Read a few of their published pieces below.

In this series, I’ll teach you how to formulate strong story ideas, research publications to understand what they want, read the editorial landscape with ease, and master the art of pitching editors. Even experienced writers often discover new insights, as freelance journalism can be notoriously difficult to navigate without guidance.

If you follow this series from start to finish, you’ll have submitted pitches and gained the tools to continue doing so confidently on your own.

Topics I’ll Cover:

• How to Introduce Yourself to Editors and Build a Portfolio

• How to Build Your Curiosity

• How to Source Ideas

• Identifying the Elements of Newsworthiness

• Overview of Digital Media

• Overview of Print Media

• How to Write Pitches Editors Will Love

• Media Ethics

• Interview Best Practices

Don’t just take my word for it:

“My experience with Michaela cleaved open an opportunity for the career path I’d yearned for but had long ago let wither. I knew I had an eye for story ideas but I struggled to refine the angle and was unsure how to format my pitches. With Michaela’s help, I landed my first commission with Condé Nast Traveler on a pitch I workshopped with her. Since then, I’ve written more stories for CNT and am currently working on commissions for Vogue and National Geographic.”
— Catherine Tansey, writer for Condé Nast Traveler, Vogue, NatGeo, and Atmos

“Michaela has taught me more about pitching and the practice of writing than my entire Journalism MA Degree program. Not only do I have a higher response rate from editors on my pitches, but I’ve also been able to work on building a sustainable writing practice that is transforming my freelance writing career.”
— Shivani Somaiya, writer for Condé Nast Traveler, Vogue, and Dossier

“Michaela knows how to transform a passion into a rewarding profession and brings a comprehensive understanding of what it takes to break through in this competitive industry. Whether you’re a budding writer just starting out or a seasoned journalist looking to sharpen your skills, Michaela will help you reach your goals.”
— Ian Centrone, writer for Men’s Journal, Travel + Leisure, NatGeo, and Esquire

I’ll release a new post every Sunday!

When this series wraps, I’ll release even more on how to write your story once you’ve landed an assignment—travel narratives, trend pieces, personal essays, and more.

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A few moments after my plane touches down, the pilot says something garbled over the intercom that no one understands.

Then the seatbelt sign chimes twice, something we do understand.

The illuminated buckle disappears, and the bloodbath begins.

It’s at this point in your travel day that you, ironically, better buckle the fuck up.

All rules of civility have left the building. We’re back in the Colosseum of Ancient Rome, baby.

It’s also the exact moment—not queuing to board the plane, not huddling around conveyor belts like ants to fetch our bags—when you can find out what a man, or your man, is really made of.

I’m flying solo today, and I sat in an aisle seat.

So the likelihood of getting off this plane with my sanity still intact is high.

The odds are in my favor.

I stand up to stretch my legs, and I’m a nanosecond away from stepping a foot into the aisle—one small step for womankind!—when I turn to see a man with a baseball cap bulldozing his way forward.

This Aisle Assassin, who came from at least five rows back, is now in my aisle space.

He’s only forced to stop when another equally large man rises from his seat. The Human Barricade blocks the Aisle Assassin from going any farther while his wife steps into the aisle ahead of him.

If only the Human Barricade were sitting a few rows behind me! Now I’m stuck in my seat space as the Aisle Assassin twitches awkwardly beside me, taking up every inch of what should have been mine.

I roll my eyes and huff, hoping he hears me, as I plop back into my seat.

I refuse to hunch over at a violent forty-five-degree angle beneath the low ceiling of the overhead bins, with my neck compressed, my face inches from the Aisle Assassin’s armpits. It’s an agonizing, self-inflicted posture that half the plane willingly assumes.

But not me. Not today.

So forget standing up. Forget dislodging my carry-on from the overhead bin with ease—and not in a chaotic rush as the people behind me judge my speed.

I’m now relegated to a good old-fashioned time-out all because Aisle Assassin wanted to take a shortcut that will save him all of 30 seconds.

I’m in economy, so it will take nothing short of a lifetime to get off this plane anyway, which gives me plenty of time to observe.

A few rows ahead, an old woman is chatting the ear off a man beside her, her voice carrying to the back of the plane. Both of them are in that agonizing posture, craning their necks below the reading lights, the man’s hair fluttering from the fans. He keeps nodding politely as she speaks. He has the slightly helpless smile of someone who did not expect to be forced to make a new friend before baggage claim.

Nevertheless, he lets her take his arm as she scoots her way into the aisle. This Overhead Bin Hero even gets her bag down from the bin for her—before he gets his. And he insists she walk in front of him, even though she’s going at the speed of an undercharged golf cart.

When it’s finally time for my row to begin the silent crawl off the plane, the Aisle Assassin puts the pressure on. He’s practically pressed against the Human Barricade, and I wonder if the poor man can feel the Aisle Assassin’s dick. If he’s in this much of a rush, he’s either about to shit his pants—or he’s an asshole.

All of this gets me thinking…

Forget the old adage about not dating a man until you see how he treats the waiter.

(Although sometimes that one proves true: I once dated a man who wouldn’t tell our server that his salad was too salty, then complained after he paid, when she couldn’t do anything about it. I was 25, so I ignored this massive character flaw and dated him anyway. We broke up, obviously.)

Don’t date a man until you see how he gets off a plane.

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Unlike a pleasant dinner experience, the deboarding process is inherently stressful. Not only does it reveal a man’s character, but it also reveals where he exists on the terrifying entitlement scale. Most of all, it shows you how he treats women—you and others—when he’s under pressure.

Well-traveled women I know don’t need a man to carry their bags or let them go first, but I’m pretty sure we all deeply appreciate kindness and self-awareness. Especially when it costs a man almost nothing and makes our lives, or someone else’s, easier.

When you travel as much as I do and watch enough men deboard planes, patterns start to emerge.

There are all types.

The Aisle Assassin: He’ll barrel down the aisle from five rows back, all while mowing you down with his suitcase. He’ll do so with no remorse unless someone stops him, only for you to pass him in the jet bridge 30 seconds later.

The Human Barricade: He believes in order. He’ll use his body to stop the aisle-cutters so you and your row can exit when it’s actually your turn. It’s not really about you. It’s about the rules.

The Overhead Bin Hero: He’s that gem of a man who will help a woman he doesn’t know get her bag from the overhead bin before he gets his own.

The Selective Gentleman: He steps aside for the women he’s with, letting them go first. But not for you. Sorry.

The Hands-Free Husband: His wife is carrying the children, the diaper bag, and half the family’s belongings. He has a backpack.

The Overhead Bin Hog: He’ll yank his bag down as soon as that seatbelt sign goes off; he doesn’t even have time to check whose head is collateral damage.

The Begrudging Gentleman: He only lets you off first after you give him the judgmental side-eye. He immediately climbs up your ass in the shuffle off the plane, then tries to pass you as quickly as he can in the jet bridge.

The Do-It-All Daddy: It doesn’t matter if he’s with his mom, wife, kids—or all three. He’s got EVERYTHING! His wife looks fresh as hell, and he won’t even let her carry her tiny purse. He’s got that taken care of already—and if they have a family, he probably has one kid slung over his shoulder and a massive bag over the other.

So next time you travel with a man, see how he deboards the plane.

Anyone can pass a test with flying colors when they know they’re taking one: on a dinner date, grabbing drinks, or going for a coffee.

But it’s in an unguarded moment like this—when the seatbelts come flying off as fast as the masks we wear every day!—that you can tell a lot about a man’s character.

Are there any types I forgot? Tell me in the comments!

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” says my Costa Rican surf instructor as he reaches for my hand. “Do you trust me?”

He squeezes my palm as I nod, slowly at first, then enthusiastically. Because the truth is, I do believe him. And not just a little. I believe him with every fiber of my body.

It’s the way he stares at me with his hazel green eyes, never breaking contact.

The way he slowly slides his hand out of mine, tapping my board with his fist.

The way he turns to the waves, reading them like it’s his first language.

He’s sure of himself, and that makes me sure of him, too.

“Alright, come on,” he says.

He’s all business as he paddles us over the next wave. He made me promise him I wouldn’t abandon my board and dive under the whitewater—my classic move when I’m scared!—so I don’t.

Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, and my stomach lifts as we ride over the swell. When I open them, all I see is a calm ocean in the distance. I’m reminded of why I take surfing lessons even though it scares me shitless—it makes me feel wild and free, like this moment is the only one.

My triumph is short-lived when I look over my shoulder. The wave I thought was so giant evaporates into a mere ripple as it crashes onto the shore.

“Yeah!” he cheers. “See. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just water.”

I’m lying flat on my board, and before I can pop up to sit and collect my thoughts, I feel a—one, two, three—tap on my ass. Like a pat on the back but more… intimate.

I turn to him, and he smirks. Then wipes the salt water off his lips, drawing my eyes to his mouth. He traces his bottom lip with his thumb.

Oh.

I may be his third lesson of the day, and he may say these lines, do these moves, with every student, but…

All this encouragement and trust is creating another problem entirely. One more overwhelming than my fear of the waves.

I’m no longer contemplating my own mortality. (At least not fully.)

I’m now distracted by him.

His giant hand is positioned squarely on the front of my board. His fingers wrap around it, not letting it out of his control. It makes me wonder what else he can grip like that.

I trace the rippling muscles of his arms all the way to his bronzed chest. To his hair littered with natural highlights. To the damn-near twenty-pack that seems almost unnatural but somehow fits him perfectly.

He’s not my usual type. Yet I’m attracted to him.

It’s not just his looks.

It’s his presence.

He’s patient.

I’m clearly out of my element on this fiberglass death trap that has the capacity to knock out my teeth. Instead of chastising me for this and calling me a baby, he tells me he’s got my back. With him, I’m allowed to be a beginner, to be terrible at something, a permission slip adult life almost never grants.

He’s calm.

Unlike me, he never loses his cool. He constantly maintains his strength and softness, even when I nearly hit him with my board a few times. His baseline response is ease, as mine continually hovers around losing my shit.

He’s intelligent.

He reads my emotions as well as the waves. He knows when I’m scared, when to reassure me. Or when to push me to catch the next wave. In return, I trust him to guide me through the entire experience safely, especially when he can read every rush of water and know which one is the perfect wave for me to ride.

As a single, self-employed, emotionally attuned woman in my 30s, the way my Costa Rican surf instructor handles all of me and my erratic emotions is a fucking dream.

After my lesson is over, I realize why.

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Like most women I know, I manage my life on my own, and I do it well.

I earn my own money, pay my own rent, buy my own flights, make all of my own decisions. I travel to countries by myself, move to countries by myself, and generally solve all of my own problems—and if I can’t do something myself, for whatever reason, it’s women I seek out to help me. It’s rarely ever a man.

Yet despite all of this, I can admit that for the longest time, I held the belief that one day a man would come along and “save” me from myself.

This is the itch my Costa Rican surf instructor scratches so beautifully.

I blame the literature and film I was raised on.

Sure, I was an early adopter of GIRLS when I lived in New York, watching women stumble toward adulthood without a Prince Charming waiting around to fix their lives for them, and I sobbed while reading Lena Dunham’s new memoir Famesick, wishing the world would have done more to protect her as she was liberating all of us. I’m now a massive fan of Off Campus (I’ve literally watched it five times already), where the women have ambitions, sexual appetites, and complicated inner worlds of their own, and men don’t just tolerate it or even celebrate it—they fall in love with them for it.

But when I was a girl, none of this was available. It was the same tired narratives of Disney princesses waiting for princes, and books about rich, powerful men arriving to signal a woman’s life was about to change—that her struggles were over and she could live happily ever after, never having to make a decision on her own again.

Consciously, I am a liberated woman.

Subconsciously, I’ve been conditioned to be that Disney princess.

That’s why, up until a few years ago, I believed my life would miraculously come together and finally make sense once I met the right man. He would have his life path structured so clearly that, as a result, it would iron mine out as well.

Without consciously seeking out these types of men, I ended up dating into this pattern. All my exes were in banking, finance, private equity, or some form of entrepreneurship.

Even though I didn’t know the real inner workings of their financials, it always seemed they had the whole capitalism thing figured out. I looked to them for the parts of me I didn’t have—the structure, the certainty, the plan—and they did the same to me.

Where their lives demanded rigidity, I was their artist, their wild woman, their tantric muse.

What they offered was never enough, and vice versa: I had a few relationships end after the men realized they needed to go out and live more, be a little wild. Like me!

I’m so grateful that bubble of delusion has burst.

I’m no longer seeking this in my partners because I embody it myself.

Which brings me back to the man holding my board.

What happens when a man has the decisiveness I once associated with finance guys, but none of their rigidity? When he’s assertive and soft, physically capable and emotionally present, and his expertise isn’t manipulating a market but reading an ocean?

It creates a pressure cooker for attraction—for lust.

For the length of the lesson, all the noise stops as a strong, competent man takes control.

But it’s not like a surf instructor changes any of the aforementioned inner workings of my psyche.

And, of course, there are caveats.

For one, I’m paying him.

He’s being attentive to me because it’s his profession. I’m a free woman with means to travel to his country, means he may not have. His tenderness is real, but it lives inside a transaction, one that’s often necessary to his livelihood.

Nevertheless, we’re bound in a charged experience that often feels like a matter of life or death, one that ends after 90 minutes. Usually.

(And if you’re wondering… no, I didn’t sleep with my Costa Rican surf instructor, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.)

It turns out, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Alexandra, 30, developed a love affair with a Mexican surf instructor during her holiday because he embodied endless, carefree fun with a touch of intensity. “He was like a God: the coolest guy in town and nine years younger than me. After years of being hyper-independent, he was pure kryptonite and left me seeking more wildness in my life long after our relationship ended.”

Then there’s Sarah, who, at 28, fell for a Chilean surfer while traveling in Bali. The attraction was so strong because he embodied the life she wanted for herself. “He was the coolest, wildest, most beautiful man I’d ever met. He turned me on because he lived on the edge, and I was longing to take risks, something he seemed to do so easily. What he brought out in me is a big reason I quit my job and moved to Latin America.”

At age 35 in Costa Rica, Ida had a love affair with her surf instructor and realized it was about giving herself permission to be spontaneous and live in the moment. “I was in-between lives, on a six-month sabbatical, and I arrived having never had a spontaneous love affair. It was liberating.”

Regardless of whether an intimate relationship forms, it seems there’s a common thread in why so many of us are attracted to our surf instructors. And honestly, I think this applies to instructors of almost any physical pursuit.

It’s not just because they’re hot (And trust me, they’re really hot.)

We’re attracted to the version of ourselves we become in their presence.

The fantasy is even more alluring because it’s contained to a time and place.

It’s not about wanting to be saved.

It’s about wanting to stop saving ourselves.

Even if it’s just for 90 minutes, it’s like we’re finally able to exhale.

We get to access the wild, spontaneous parts of ourselves that relentless self-sufficiency can dim—and the chance to relinquish control to a man competent enough to take it.

Coming soon: Here’s the Real Reason Your Surf Instructor Wants to F*ck You.

I am waiting to board the boat of an Italian man I met last summer. Someone whose innate sense of romance left a mark.

On me. And in my journal. (More on that later.)

I wasn’t planning on visiting his island again anytime soon, let alone back-to-back summers, mostly because… There are more islands to see, more experiences to have.

My phone lights up. Sto qui. There’s no looking back.

He’s arrived at the beach club where I’ve spent the last few hours, soaking up the thick of Italian summer with an Aperol Spritz. (Or three.)

It’s not like I haven’t been preparing for his arrival for the last hour. The contents of my makeup bag are scattered across the striped towel on my lounger. I shamelessly check my reflection one last time in my NARS compact, where I’ve just blushed and bronzed my face to what I’m hoping is giving, I’m trying, but I’m not trying too hard.

I’ve been in the water all day, yet I kept my hair dry thanks to my favorite seashell clip. (I still have a stubborn belief my naturally curly hair looks better blown out, probably because I came of age in the Britney Spears era of low-rise jeans and flat-ironed hair.)

I let it fall over my shoulders and brush it back. This will have to do. I pull my dress on over my swimsuit, then tuck my makeup bag, Kindle, and lip gloss into my beach tote and scan the horizon, wondering which boat is his.

It’s easy to spot. A classic wooden gozzo he sent me a picture of earlier this week, along with a wine list, seeking my approval on both. Of course, I approved.

And now the day is here. He’s here. For me.

I found his forward planning endearing, especially because he’s a boat captain and it’s high season on the island. But I’m not surprised. I learned a couple of things about him last summer. That he’s as efficient as he is romantic, both equal parts of his charm. (He’s a Virgo.)

So, naturally, when I walk to the pier to ask the beach club’s water taxi to deliver me to him, they tell me he’s already called ahead. They know where we’re headed.

As we near his boat, my stomach does somersaults. I’m nervous. Really nervous. Which makes no sense. I know this man. When he turns around and waves at us, that massive grin I remember appears. The rush of last summer returns.

He takes my hand to help me aboard, and we hug for what feels like an eternity. He looks the same, maybe even better, but that’s not what gets me. It’s that he feels the same, too. Maybe even better.

When we finally let go, he takes a step back but keeps a grip on my arms, looking me up and down, saying something in Italian akin to… Wow, you’re really here!

Then he takes off his sunglasses to look at me. His smile reaches his eyes, their edges creasing. He puts a hand on the back of my neck, and then…

He kisses me.

Nostalgia hugs me all over, and my body goes warm. Like we’ve already gone swimming in the sea. Then it’s my turn to take a step back and take him in. But I do it mostly to regain balance. Kissing him after all this time is dizzying.

He’s sun-kissed, a few shades darker than I recall, and his white linen shirt is unbuttoned to the center of his chest, that same beaded necklace he wore last year—the one his mom gave him—still dangling at his throat. That’s when I realize…

I wasn’t nervous to see him again because I didn’t think our connection was real.

I was nervous to see him again because I didn’t want to ruin a perfect memory.

But he’s not a memory. He’s a real, live, beautiful man. Standing in front of me. Smiling. And that shakes something loose. Something I thought I knew.

One blaring reason travel is so euphoric is that trips are, by default, ephemeral. They place us squarely in the present, and we have no choice but to squeeze each one for all its juice. That must be the same for love affairs, right?

They’re so charged and erotic because they will inevitably end, and that’s what makes them so…

Tragic. Perfect.

But here I am, on the Italian man’s boat—again!—proving one of two things.

I’m a hypocrite.

Or my theory is wholly incorrect.

I take my seat next to him as he navigates away from the beach club, into the open sea. My thoughts are drowned out by the jagged cliffs slipping past, the salt spray against my chest. I don’t ask him where we’re going, or say much at all. And it’s not like I can, really.

I barely speak Italian.

He barely speaks English.

Yet the energy between us remains as palpable as it was on that first day we met a year ago. He places his hand on my leg just like last summer, and I take a deep breath, realizing I’m already living inside the kind of memory I’d been so intent on protecting.

His hands are big, veiny, his fingers worn, his nails flat and weathered. The kind of hands a man gets from a life at sea. The warm wind tosses my hair loose. Whatever worry I had about how I looked beforehand completely dissolves.

He slows as we near a cove, turns into it, and drops the anchor. I take stock of the boat. The carefully varnished wood, the pile of snorkel gear in the corner.

This must be his family’s, not a rental. The one his dad probably takes out fishing, the one they use for beach days once the season ends.

I spot a picnic basket. As if he reads my thoughts, he opens it. He reveals two types of wine like it’s a magic trick, one sparkling and one white, just as he promised. Both from his island. Two types of chips. And cherries. Lots and lots of cherries.

I point to the sparkling. He nods, untwisting the wire, then hands me the bottle. I pop the cork. He pours each of us a glass, then points to the cliffside, where the rock disappears into the sea.

There’s a grotto hidden below it, he says.

An invitation.

He takes off his shirt.

I take off my dress.

He pulls me into him. Kisses me again. Then jumps in the water. His head bobs up, and he beckons me in. I laugh at how precious I was about my appearance before, as if “ready” is a thing you can be on a boat. I jump in the water and swim after him to the rocks. When his hand touches the stone, he looks back at me, all sweetness with a flash of mischief. He explains we have to hold our breath and dive under. It’s only a few strokes to air.

He reaches back for me, palm open.

“Vieni?”

While Sifnos is usually associated with its ceramic culture, whitewashed medieval villages, and stunning coastal hiking paths, I found it wholly romantic.

It’s the Greek island I’d return to every summer if I could. It has it all: beaches, ceramic shops, over 50 miles of marked hiking trails, and refined restaurants, as well as dramatic cliffside views like Santorini without the same level of crowds. And the sunrises—don’t get me started about the sunrises! They feel downright holy, and there’s nowhere I’d rather wake up and journal than from bed at Verina Astra, one of the island’s best hotels.You’ll fall in love with sites like Chrysopigi Monastery, Panagia Poulati Monastery, and the former medieval capital Kastro. The latter is full of whitewashed archways and lined with narrow, winding pathways—all chaotically laid out to confuse invaders in the Middle Ages!—most of which lead to the iconic Church of the Seven Martyrs.

Your hotel will likely send a shuttle to pick you up at the port, but you'll need a car to make the most of your trip. Once you're all checked in, ask your hotel to arrange a rental car to be dropped off for you the next morning, or even better, arrange this all in advance via email to ensure availability.

Here, a quick guide to set you up for a lovely getaway on Sifnos. Bring a lover, bring a friend, or go solo. No matter how you choose to go, I bet you’ll leave as smitten with this Cycladic island as I am.

Where to Stay:

There are a few stunning boutique hotels on Sifnos, and of them all, Verina Astra and Stamna Sifnos are my favorites—and for very different reasons.

I am not being dramatic—or maybe I am!—when I say that Verina Astra has some of the most idyllic views I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve been on the road nearly full-time as a professional travel writer for 12 years! All 16 rooms face the Aegean Sea, and each comes equipped with deckchairs and daybeds for optimal sea and star gazing.

Stamna is on my list for entirely different reasons: its sleek design and its easy access to Apollonia. The village is full of convivial bars and shops, one of which I visited, where I may or may not have purchased a Tibetan sound bowl from a Greek man who happened to speak Spanish and used to live in Ecuador. I couldn’t help myself! But I digress; I also love Stamna because it has something unusual for an island hotel: a gym, which comes replete with sea views just like most of the rooms.

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Where to Shop for Ceramics:

There are plenty of ceramics shops on the island, but I have my top three. The first is Lembesis Pottery, because I think the pieces are truly unique. The owner, Nikos Lembesis, and his mom were in the shop when we visited, so it was fun to watch him handcraft the delicate plates and mugs. I bought four bowls, but I would have loved to buy even more. I also loved Sifnos Stoneware. Where Lembesis Pottery feels more rustic—that charming island feel in each piece that makes you want to melt from nostalgia!—Sifnos Stoneware offers ceramics that could as easily be at home in a seaside Sifnos villa as in the home of an art collector in Manhattan. Each piece feels singular, almost more like object art, and, for me at least, almost too special to eat off of every day. Last but not least, there’s the hilltop Apostolidis Ceramics, where third-generation owner Yannis Apostolidis is at the helm. As we arrived, he did too, rolling up on his motorcycle and immediately offering us a shot of ouzo. His studio sits just outside Kamares Bay, and he digs his clay from the earth right outside his door, the same spot his grandfather discovered. His ceramics are top-notch, and how can you deny this type of hospitality!

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Where to Eat & Drink

Everyone suggests dining at the beachfront taverna Omega3, and there’s a reason for that—it’s delicious! Be sure to book your table in advance, and let the server guide your order based on what you’re in the mood for, as every dish on the menu is stellar. If your table isn’t ready when you arrive, don’t fret. Take a dip at Platis Gialos beach while you wait, one of the largest sandy beaches on the island.

You can also do lunch at the less glamorous yet ever-comforting Cheronissos Fish Taverna in the remote fishing village of Cheronissos. The drive to reach it is stunning. Be sure to try the fish soup—and yes, even if it’s hot outside, just trust me!—and swim in the sea either before or after. Later, it’s obligatory to pass a boozy European sunset at Loggia, a natural wine bar built into the cliffside in Kastro, just steps from the Church of the Seven Martyrs. It doesn’t open until 7 p.m., and tables are limited, so either reserve or arrive early and claim a spot on the stairs.

For sweets, you must go to Theodorou. I stuffed my carry-on suitcase with as many packs of candied almonds as it could fit, and a visit to this confectionery shop, dating back to 1933, is worth the nostalgia alone. Owner Vasilodimos Theodorou let us go to the kitchen and watch him make their famous amygdalota: hand-rolled with fingers dipped in rosewater, then cooked in a wood-fired copper pan with lemon syrup. The shop turns out around 500 a day. You can also buy some nice bottles of ouzo here to take home as gifts.

When it’s time for your farewell dinner, save it for Bostani Bar & Restaurant at Verina Astra, which you need to book in advance. It’s set around a fragrant herb garden, and the views over the Aegean Sea are the cherry on top of its farm-to-table menu, which focuses on traditional Sifnian and Cycladic recipes like revithada, slow-baked local chickpea soup, and mastelo, tender lamb or goat slow-cooked with wine and dill in a traditional clay baking pot.

I wasn’t supposed to visit Madrid this summer, but life brought me there for three weeks in July, and I’m so happy it did! I had the time of my life with my friends who live there, and I even got to check out the city’s incredibly robust health and wellness scene. (I joked that it felt like there was a fitness studio on every corner!) But not all of them are created equal, and I had ample time to find out.

Here are my favorite places where I got a good sweat and pampered myself. A few of them are owned by friends of mine, and they’ve offered Babes In Transit paid subscribers something extra.

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Meri

My friends Janna and Daniela, originally from Finland, both transplanted to Madrid and recently opened the city’s latest wellness concept and social hub, Meri. To say it’s merely a Pilates reformer studio with a sauna component would be doing it an injustice: it's a full-blown design destination with custom-built reformers and a Finnish sauna made by Janna's mother, who builds them for a living in Helsinki. Go for a Megaformer-style class or one of their mat Pilates classes and stay for a community sauna. Don’t skip the Finnish tea afterward!

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Youth Code

My friend Cecilia is one of the founders of Youth Code and one of the most gorgeous people I know. That was reason enough for me to book one of the studio’s treatments, rooted in face yoga and designed to make you glow—and look snatched, if we’re being honest. I purchased the Drain Code, a 40-minute de-puffing and lymphatic drainage facial, and I loved it. I didn’t realize how tight my jaw was beforehand, and by the end of the session, my face had deflamed quite substantially. I needed it because I had been eating and drinking with abandon, as one does when visiting Madrid, making this a great stop to refresh mid-trip.

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ARO

If you want a serious sweat and a full-body reset, then look no further than ARO’s mat classes. The heated room is outfitted with red light and infrared heating panels for added benefit, and the classes are so hot that I felt like I expelled every alcohol and food demon I’d arrived at class with. The space is gorgeous, too, and it’s right across the street from Youth Code—do ARO in the morning and Youth Code after. Be sure to bring a change of clothes, so you’re not swimming in your own sweat!

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Sense Spa at Rosewood Villa Magna

My scalp got so dry in Madrid that I had to look for a treatment to renourish it. After a bit of research, I booked the Hair Wellth Spa treatment at Sense, A Rosewood Spa at Rosewood Villa Magna. It’s the brainchild of Claudia Di Paolo, who’s been in the luxury beauty world for almost forty years, and the treatment room alone is worth the price: it’s all fancifully feminine, with soft light and pink terrazzo. My therapist worked through a scalp massage, a wash, a hair mask, a face mask, and a body massage, and I walked out restored. If Madrid’s dry air is getting to you, this is the fix.

Casa Kavi

Raise your hand if you’ve stayed out until sunrise in Madrid! To combat the late nights, I needed to ground down with yoga, and this was my favorite I found. Tucked near the home I rented in Chamberí, just off Plaza de Olavide, it has a wabi-sabi feel, and I liked that classes stayed small and intimate. I took a power class and a vinyasa flow and loved them equally: the former left me sweaty, the latter left me feeling centered. The studio is clean and elegant, and Kavi Café out front has delicious drinks, salads, and soups to enjoy after your class.

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Before this summer, I’d never been to Croatia. I’ve now been twice since May, and I’m not sure what took me so long to visit.

The first trip was a week sailing the Dalmatian Coast with Sail Croatia in May, aboard the company’s new Lagoon 55 catamaran, Slice of Heaven. We bookended it with stays at the new Hotel Venturo in Split and the legendary Hotel Excelsior in Dubrovnik. I went back in August to spend even more time in Hvar, staying at Palace Elisabeth and the newly renovated Sirena Resort Hvar, both worth a proper visit in their own right.

Both trips felt sexy and freeing, and also distinctly grown up, nothing like the Yacht Week reputation that had steered me away from visiting Croatia in the past. Some of that is deliberate: Hvar town recently voted to keep its summer noise cap at 85 decibels, roughly the volume of a busy restaurant, and Dubrovnik has run an 11 pm outdoor sound curfew for years now. Croatia’s old party reputation may still fit in some places, but it’s not the first thing you notice.

What you notice instead is how carefully the country looks after its natural landscape. Not only is Croatia one of the cleanest countries I’ve ever visited (I didn’t see a single piece of plastic the entire time I sailed the Adriatic, and the pine forests and bike paths are stunning), but Croatians themselves are warm, hospitable, and eager to share more about their country.

When most people travel along the Dalmatian Coast, they usually do so by boat, private or group, going from port to port, Split to Dubrovnik or the reverse. While days spent sailing past forested coastlines, paddleboarding into tucked-away caves, and cycling to saltwater lakes steal the show, I was surprised by how well-rounded the dining scene was at every stop. Dinners felt festive and fun after days of big adventure.

Here, my favorite bars and restaurants in Split, Stari Grad, Vis, Hvar, Korčula, Mljet, Ston, and Dubrovnik.

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Split

When I first arrived in Split, ahead of our sailing joyride along the Dalmatian Coast, I met one of my best friends at Teraca Vidilica for a celebratory Aperol Spritz (or two!) to officially commence the journey. Later, thanks to my friend chatting up a hip barista at a Split cafe, we were pointed toward a new natural wine and listening bar, and Parasol exceeded every expectation. We met Mario, one of the owners, who is absolutely lovely, and we worked through a few glasses of bubbly and small plates at the outdoor standing area before taking our seats inside for mussels in Riesling butter and tagliatelle with lamb and baharat ragù. It’s the perfect place to toast the beginning or end of a journey. Be sure to reserve online ahead of time. Tables go fast in high season.

Stari Grad

When I first got to Hora Farm, I thought I’d walked into a tourist trap. Small groups fresh off catamarans were already seated, but 10 minutes in, I knew I'd got it wrong. It’s a family-run working farm in the heart of the Stari Grad Plain, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that preserves ancient Greek agricultural traditions. Almost everything on the table came off the land surrounding the restaurant, including cheese from Jersey cows and two-year dry-aged sausage from Black Slavonian pigs. Then came the peka, pictured below. A mix of lamb, veal, and potatoes slow-cooked in a heavy iron bell over coals, which is roughly how people on this coast have been cooking since the Bronze Age. But the real winner was the wine, mainly the Bogdanuša, a crisp, mineral white wine that grows almost nowhere but on this plain. Order a bottle!

Vis

We were in Vis for what felt like the blink of an eye, but the most beautiful place we stumbled on during our walk along the promenade was Villa Kaliopa. It sits in the walled garden of a 16th-century summer palace built for the Milanese nobleman Francesco Garibaldi, and you could walk straight past the stone wall without knowing anything is behind it. You don’t want to miss it. The gate opens onto a secret garden with lush palms, marble statues, candlelit tables scattered so far apart you feel like you’re dining alone in someone’s private estate. It’s quite romantic. There’s barely a menu to speak of: the waiter arrives with a platter of the day’s catch, and you choose your fish at the table before it goes on the grill. We ate ours with an orange Croatian wine, and I especially loved the way the sunset light scattered through the garden.

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Hvar

When we first sailed into Hvar’s port, I was instantly impressed by Fortica, the Venetian fortress sitting above the harbor and the grand square below, the largest in Dalmatia. The town was once written off as a party hub, but thanks to a local noise cap, it felt rather grown up to me. Fate and a long walk brought us to Yumo, a new restaurant with delicious cocktails (do the Bartender’s Choice and be pleasantly surprised) and dishes like wild boar mousse and our favorite, a red prawn linguine. The desserts are all worth it, especially the cherry compote and chocolate mousse. Ask for Josip; he’ll make your meal unforgettable. If time allows, have lunch at Sirena Resort Hvar for tuna carpaccio and beef tartare, then splurge on an extravagant dinner at San Marco at Palace Elisabeth, perched atop the old Loggia above the square. Go big or go home: champagne, oysters, lobster pasta, and the lavender cheesecake, since the island is famous for it. Afterward, or instead, Me Amore Gelato is a few minutes’ walk away, and the pistachio and hazelnut are (dare I say!) as good as any I’ve had in Italy.

Korčula

Cocktail Bar Massimo is popular for a reason, and when our Sail Croatia guide told us not to wear dresses to this tower-top bar, he was right. You reach it by climbing up a steep wooden ladder inside the 15th-century Zakerjan Tower, and it’s well worth the effort. The view over Korčula, my favorite island we visited during our trip, was dreamy, making a visit here seem downright mandatory. When it’s time for dinner, there’s LD Restaurant, the island’s only Michelin-starred kitchen, at the Relais & Châteaux property Lešić Dimitri Palace. It’s known for seasonal Dalmatian cooking and a terrace that runs along the medieval wall with views across the Pelješac channel. For something more relaxed with the same view, we chose Pensatore Kitchen & Wine. Our waiter guided us to a red grown on Pelješac, our only red wine of the trip, and we split a few pizzas and a salad.

Mljet

Mljet was the sleepiest port we visited, and also one of my favorites. As soon as we arrived, we rented e-bikes and cycled to the lakes at the heart of the national park. We tried to grab drinks at Restoran Melita, and we even waved the red flag for a boat pick-up as the sign suggested, but we were unsuccessful. If I go back, I’d make a point of getting out there: the restaurant sits under the arches of a 12th-century Benedictine monastery on its own islet in the middle of the lake. For dinner, we ate at Konoba Antika along the water. I ordered the black risotto and the house white, and neither disappointed.

Ston

At first, arriving in Ston feels a bit underwhelming. There’s no stunning turquoise beach to paddleboard in, just salt pans stretching out flat in the sun. But as we rounded the corner, the Walls of Ston came into view, which my friends and I nicknamed the Great Wall of Croatia. Turns out to be what everyone calls them. They’re the longest fortification system in Europe, second in the world only to the actual Great Wall, and were built in the 14th century to protect the salt that made this town rich. Don’t skip the long hike up and over, because Bota Šare Mali Ston Restaurant & Oyster Bar awaits on the other side. Order champagne with your Ston oysters, obligatory given the bay is famous for them. There’s also a dessert pasta on the menu called stonski makaruli, a local cake made with pasta, sugar, almonds, and cinnamon. Order it if only for the novelty, and for the history: it’s a celebration cake, made for weddings and Christmas, where the pasta is there to make the almonds go further.

Dubrovnik

We spent one of our last nights in style at Gradska Kavana Arsenal, a harborside restaurant built into Dubrovnik’s medieval shipyard, with dreamy starlit views over the Old City Port. There’s live music, which makes it all so romantic, and our meal was one of the most festive and memorable—ask for Nico to be your server if he’s there! We ordered champagne to start, along with a mix of small plates like tuna and beef carpaccio. If time allows, I highly suggest adding a few nights at Hotel Excelsior to your trip. Across from the property, the Old Town sits in full view, with the wooded island of Lokrum just offshore. The amenities are second to none: you can take a dip in the hotel’s natural stone pool carved into the rocks and relax as seawater waves come over the edge, or swim straight into the Adriatic from one of the metal ladders along the stone deck. Book lunch at the seaside Prora or dinner at Sensus, where we dined. The latter is known for its fresh Mediterranean dishes and its extensive Croatian wine list displayed along the restaurant walls.

READER: Where is the best place to travel during the last week of August or the first week of September? We fly into Frankfurt. From there, we can go anywhere and are having a hard time deciding. 😅 We have recently been to Spain, the Amalfi Coast, Rome, England, and Croatia.

MICHAELA: While you could plan a vacation somewhere nearby with cooler temperatures, like Slovenia or Austria, I’m getting the vibe you like islands as much as I do.

So, let me wholeheartedly recommend Greece, an easy three-hour direct flight from Frankfurt with several departures a day. I go every summer, and here’s how I’d approach a trip at the end of August or the beginning of September.

First, you must spend at least a few days on the front or back end of your trip in Athens. The culinary scene is exploding, and a few picks I’d recommend are Pharaoh, Taverna Ton Filon, Akra (book the chef’s table), and Papadakis Restaurant. Book a room at a hotel like The Dolli or Mona Athens, and be sure to write to the guide and archaeologist Michael Patmanidis for the best tour of the Acropolis.

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Then, take to the sea!

It’s important to note that it’s easiest if you choose a specific line to travel.

My favorite is the Western Cyclades ferry line. You can visit some of my favorite islands, including Milos, Folegandros, Kimolos, and Sifnos.

You can do something like this:

Fly or ferry to Milos, and stay at Skinopi Lodge. This family-run hotel is the best on the island, and founder and owner Nausika Georgiadou is a generous host: Her personal guide to Milos is printed in each room, with her top places to eat, drink, and swim. Be sure to sleep in and enjoy the property’s breakfast—which includes orange and lemon marmalade made by Georgiadou’s mother!—then visit some of the island’s greatest hits, like Sarakiniko Beach (go early to avoid the crowds) and Kleftiko, which is best explored by boat. My favorite meals were the slow-baked pork served in a clay pot at O! Hamos! Tavern and pretty much any of the seafood dishes at Medusa.

From Milos, you can visit Kimolos and Folegandros. I suggest booking stays at Espera and Gundari, respectively. Or, if you’re short on time, a day trip to Kimolos is an option, too. The ferry to Kimolos leaves from Pollonia rather than the main port at Adamas, and the crossing takes just 25 minutes.

On the way back to Athens, give Sifnos at least a few days. It’s one of the most dramatic—and in my opinion, romantic!—islands in Greece.

Read my full guide to Sifnos here: Why Sifnos Is For Lovers.

Two practical notes: Most of the hotels I recommend are small, and this is peak season, so book as far ahead as you can. And the meltemi winds can still be blowing across the Aegean Sea in late August, which occasionally cancels ferries, so give yourself a buffer day back in Athens before your flight home.

Happy travels!

As I board my Copa Airlines flight from Panama to Puerto Rico, I congratulate myself on another seamless travel day: After over a decade as a globetrotting freelance writer, I’ve got this whole flying thing down. I only pack a carry-on whenever possible, I dress well enough that security agents and flight attendants treat me nicely, and, when I can, I snag last-minute upgrades to business for cheap—like I did today.

And by some miracle, no one is seated next to me.

I send up a quick thank you to the Flight Gods as I get cozy in my seat, zipping my brown Lululemon jacket to my neck, part of a matching set that keeps me warm on flights. I tie my hair back in a loose knot, careful not to form creases and ruin my blowout that’s still lingering from yesterday. I pull a plush eye mask onto my forehead, position my giant Bose headphones like a headband, and press play on my favorite meditation playlist.

I take a deep breath, slide the mask down over my eyes, and prepare for a well-earned nap—I got up at 3 am to make my first flight!—when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I smile, because really, the only thing that could make this better is champagne.

I lift my eye mask, preparing to reach for a glass of bubbly—

Instead, it’s an old man who is leaning a little oddly to one side, breathing heavily as he waves his ticket at me.

“That’s my seat,” he wheezes, pointing to the window next to me.

He looks like he should be checking into a hospital rather than this flight.

He has a gash on his nose, a pained look on his face, and by the way he’s favoring his left hip, it’s almost like he got in a car wreck.

As I unclip my seatbelt, he places his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t get up.”

He squeezes my arm and rubs, and the gesture is friendly—too friendly!—and as he leans over, preparing to wedge himself past me to his window seat, I stop him.

“I insist, sir,” I say. For two reasons.

First, I’ve had way too many asses and balls dangerously close to my face as someone tries to squeeze their way out of a row without inconveniencing me to stand up. Second, I’m not sure he’s stable enough to make it to the seat without falling on me.

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He wobbles back a few steps to let me out, and I almost reach for him, concerned he may collapse in the aisle. But he steadies himself, and as I get up, I get a better look at his battered face.

His eyes are bloodshot, dozens of little red lines etched like the gash on his nose.

Then I get a pickled, sour whiff of…

Him. He’s drunk, really drunk, practically fermenting before my eyes.

Suddenly, the friendly shoulder rub makes more sense.

He shuffles past me and plops into his seat, and the pity I felt now curdles into suspicion. Did he want his body to touch mine?

I resist the urge to damn him prematurely. He could be as excited to go on vacation as I am and accidentally overserved himself, or perhaps he’s a nervous flyer and needed to take the edge off.

I readjust myself into my seat, and while I may no longer have the row to myself, I can still make this work. After all, Bose headphones on are the universal sign for Don’t talk to me!

I've barely closed my eyes when I feel his breath on my cheek.

“Are you Puerto Rican?” he asks at the volume that tells me he’s hard of hearing.

I peel my eyes open, and resist the urge to wipe away the fleck of spit that landed on my face when he hit the P in Puerto.

We lock eyes, and part of me knows I should stop this now—politely say I’d like to sleep—but I can’t bring myself to be rude to such an old man.

Regretfully, I slip my headphones around my neck and respond.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m going to meet some friends for a concert.”

“Well, I live there. For 14 years, and I still don’t speak Spanish!” He rips a laugh, and it echoes through business class.

Uff. I wince, smiling, but I’m embarrassed he said that to me. I look around to see if anyone heard, but they seem to be doing what I want to be doing—watching movies or listening to music. All with headphones blissfully secured.

I turn back to my seatmate, and I’m about to attempt to wrap up our conversation, but there’s no time. He begins bulldozing me with his life story, telling me how he’s been retired and lives outside of San Juan, how he’s originally from California, and that he just went back to tie up some “loose ends with family.”

Before we take off, he orders a vodka Diet Coke and crushes it in three gulps, and once we’re airborne, he orders another, and that’s when he really lets it rip.

“I invited my kids to visit me in Puerto Rico. The two boys said yes, but can you believe my daughter said no?”

I can, actually. But I don’t say that.

“She says she’s too busy with work. She does social media in LA.”

He does air quotes around social media, like it’s a fake career.

He looks at me, like I’m supposed to react—or agree.

“I mean, come on, that’s not a real job. But I guess it’s a job only a twenty-three year old can do.” He throws his hands up, then takes another gulp of his drink. “I told her I’d pay her double her salary to come for the week, and a thousand dollars extra for her travel expenses. And she still said no.”

I try to find empathy for this man, mostly because I love old people and even prefer them to people my age. I enjoy the way his age group typically tells stories: Sometimes in circles, looping memories in a way I find charming and interesting, and usually with so much wisdom and soul that I’m hanging on every word. I genuinely love hearing their perspective.

But this is different.

When he flags down the flight attendant and orders another vodka Diet Coke, she looks at me, her eyes bulging.

I know what she’s thinking: Are you okay?

“You Latina women have the best bodies,” he says to the flight attendant when she returns with his drink. He traces an hourglass in the air with his hands.

My jaw drops.

Then it’s my turn to give the flight attendant the same look: Are you okay?

She disappears into the galley, and his words fade into background noise as I watch how badly his hands are shaking.

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with sorrow. Not for him. For his daughter.

I am barely registering his words when, out of nowhere, he gets uncomfortably close to my face and says, “You know what, I finally realize who you remind me of.”

He cups his chest, grabbing for breasts that aren’t there.

“You look like Sydney Sweeney without the tits!”

I wish I were shocked, but after what he just said to the flight attendant, I’m not. And I’m definitely not offended.

I love having small breasts. I always have. I get to wear body suits and teeny-tiny sports bras when I play beach volleyball and work out. If anything, his comment makes me sad for men of his age in general. How awful and gross to behave this way—and to think they have the right to.

I think it’s over, but then he takes out his phone, opens the camera app, and turns his phone like he’s going to take a selfie of us.

“For my son. He’s going to love this!”

But he’s gone too far. I’ve had enough.

“I don’t want to take a picture,” I say, placing my hand in front of his lens.

His demeanor turns cold, and while I’m sure many people would think—what could this old man do, really, seeing you’re surrounded by people and a plane?—that’s the exact reason why I feel so uncomfortable. I’m trapped next to him, and I feel obligated to be nice to him even as he’s crossing a boundary—mostly to keep him calm. I’m afraid if I say anything more that he’ll make a scene, get rowdy, and then what would I do?

Ask to move to a new seat? The flight is completely sold out.

We’re in a confined space that neither of us can leave. I feel more like his hostage than his seatmate.

He finally accepts my no and puts his phone away, then brings up his daughter again, this time nearly crying.

This time, I tell him I’m going to listen to music and read, and I don’t wait for his answer. I put my headphones back on, but my mind spins.

He’s the embodiment of the old patriarchal system in a business-class seat, and maybe no one ever educated him on how to properly act, especially toward women. In this short flight, he’s exhibited racism, sexism, alcoholism—and probably a few other isms!—that were once, sadly, waved off as boys being boys.

I think of his sons. I hope they’re different, like the young men I’ve been noticing who are in their early to late 20s. This new generation seems kind, considerate, and emotionally aware (a lot of the qualities that made me fall for Young French Sailor, who you can read about in Long Haul soon).

Maybe it’s because social media, even with all of its evils, is finally spreading awareness of what a safe, healthy man can be. Maybe it’s a cosmic correction to some of their fathers and grandfathers who acted like this. Or maybe, they once saw a man treat their sisters, mothers, and grandmothers like this and they decided… no more.

Lesson: Sometimes protecting my peace—and the dignity of my perfectly small breasts!—is more important, even if it means shutting out an old man with my Bose headphones.

I despise cold plunges, find them to be completely torturous, but there’s nothing I’d rather do than jump into one of those icy hell holes when I hear the Italian boys arrive. As they bellow their Ciaos, my friend runs out of our too-small kitchen to greet them, the polite thing to do, considering we invited them for dinner at the home we’re renting in Sicily. I feel like something must be wrong with me that I’d rather be sequestered in this inferno than be forced to go outside for some fresh air—and to giddily welcome them into our home.

But I try to cut myself some slack for not being in the mood to entertain, seeing that I’m still recovering and all.

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Just a week ago, I split from the man I was dating back home in Mexico City after falling unexpectedly hard for a Young French Sailor I met a few weeks ago in Croatia (you can read more about him when I publish the first edition of Long Haul soon).

I live for romance, but sometimes I hate that I’m so open-minded about who the right man is for me, to the point that I let myself entertain such a wide range of possibilities. It’s a dangerous game to play for someone as sensitive as me, especially when it takes me considerable time to recover from real love and, oddly enough, even longer to recover from an almost-love. Counterintuitive, perhaps. But I’m a Pisces, okay? We’re known for our vivid imaginations.

My friend returns to the kitchen, with the boys hot on her heels. Chaos erupts as they all try to squeeze inside and intervene in the meal we’re preparing, practically begging us to let them cook—“Mama mia! What are you girls doing?” one of them asks, while another shouts, “The meat DOESN’T go in the pasta!”

I manage a laugh as I take them in, all sweating through their shirts yet bright-eyed and seemingly ready for mischief. I know all of them except one, who introduces himself and holds my gaze a beat too long. I’m overwhelmed with a feeling that we’ve already met, but before I have time to go down a rabbit hole as to why I feel this way—maybe we met in a past life!—more shouts ensue. And I do the only thing I can think of to get them out of the kitchen.

I hand them a bottle opener for the massive tub of wine they brought over.

While the boys are busy uncorking a bottle and filling our glasses, we finish up the meal, passing around a big bowl of pasta family-style. I finally sit back in one of those rickety, collapsible chairs and attempt to relax, even though I feel like one wrong move will cause it to come off its rusty hinges and shatter, forcing them all to either laugh at me the way boys do in grade school—or worse, help me and make me the center of attention.

I expect my melancholy to set in as I eat because I’m no longer distracted by the task of cooking, but instead, I’m surprisingly charmed as the boys dig in. They seem to love the food despite their earlier doubts.

“It’s actually good!” says the one who stared at me, and I take it as the deepest of compliments.

I scan his face—scruffy beard, baby blue eyes, cherubic cheeks yet the beginnings of a receding hairline—and, suddenly, I know why he looks familiar.

It’s Dock Boy.

A few days earlier—after I’d just ended a lovely boat day with my favorite 70-something couple and Young French Sailor and I were still rapidly exchanging WhatsApp messages of deep adoration—I passed him on the dock, hosing off a boat. The way he looked at me and my friend should’ve required a permit: A full up-and-down scan, slow, shameless, right in front of our self-professed Italian father, who waved him off—as if saying, No, not my girls!—as they exchanged some words in Italian.

Then I catch myself doing what I always do, romanticizing.

It can’t be a coincidence he’s at my house, right?

My daydream is dismantled when one of the boys brings out the gelato, and it’s not a second after our spoons hit the bottom of the Styrofoam tub that cigarettes go ablaze and our courtyard transforms into a dive bar. I do my best to sing, dance, and banter with the group, and I even try to catch the eye of Dock Boy to no avail. We’re so loud that I’m sure our neighbors must hate us—I kind of hate us!—because it’s all quite obnoxious. Chairs screeching against stone, glasses clinking a little too hard, someone howling a chorus of an Italian song I don’t know. At one point, one of the boys takes what is supposed to be art—a saddle hanging on one of the courtyard’s stone walls—and places it around his neck, while another pretends to ride him like a horse. Their antics did cheer me up temporarily, but now it feels like a frat party, and I’m over it. I excuse myself and return to the kitchen, my safe space. I’d rather be alone, washing dishes.

When I tell you the minute effort of scrubbing these pans makes me sweat even more, that’s an understatement. Nearly every pore of my body is perspiring, and my abs are so slick that it looks like I just oiled myself up like the old people do at those Sicilian beach clubs.

As I dig a sponge inside one of those steel pans that everything sticks to—the one caked in soot of the meat we should not have added to the pasta!—I feel a sudden jolt.

A hand on my neck.

And what feels like an ice cube at the top of my spine.

My hands come to a halt as I gather what’s happening.

The ice cube is slowly being traced down my back.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

Until...

Fingertips lightly lift my swim bottoms and drop the ice cube into my ass crack.

Melting. Dripping. On my already-wet bathing suit (from sweat, you perv).

I turn around slowly, like if I go slow enough, it will be Young French Sailor.

But I already know who it is.

And I’m right.

It’s Dock Boy.

He’s laughing. Nervous. All boyish charm, even though he’s probably in his late 30s.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

This is, by every conceivable metric, a wild first move.

It’s like I spoke my cold plunge fantasy out loud and he decided to take me up on it. He smiles, then stares at me for a beat, and I’m genuinely surprised when I see something like affection in his gaze. He moves in closer, his hand grazes my jaw, and I swear he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he pulls away and opens the freezer, back with another ice cube.

What is this, a party trick?

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He steers me backward toward the old pizza oven that’s sealed shut, and I entertain the possibility of whatever fantasy this is for him until my back touches the door.

He looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and tilts his head. A question.

If I had met him three weeks ago, there’s a chance I’d be totally down for this. But considering the state of my heart, I have a feeling I’m a No.

But I want to see if this will get me out of the rut I’m in, so I nod, giving him permission.

He trails the ice down my neck, across my chest to my shoulder, then back in the middle. Ever so lightly, he moves the left side of my baby-blue bathing suit top aside, traces my nipple with the ice cube, and leans his head down and starts to suck.

I pinch back a laugh. He hasn’t even kissed me on the lips yet, for God’s sake!

What he’s doing feels good. Really good.

I tilt my head back, testing if I can get into it, when he stops.

He brings his nose to mine and leans in a bit more, like he’s going to kiss me for real this time, but stops short of my mouth. Again, it’s like he’s asking me for permission, which is touching, and I almost push him away because this is all so ridiculous. Then I see the eagerness in his eyes, like he really hopes I’ll say yes and let him kiss me—though he’s just kissed my nipple first.

I’ve always told my friends it only takes one kiss to know if it could really be something, just like Dua Lipa says. So, being the optimistic romantic I am—and in an attempt to soothe the pain of losing two men at the same time—I let him kiss me.

My answer is swift.

I can’t.

Because, well…

I wish he were someone else. And that’s not fair to either of us.

With another woman, on another night, this move would go very differently for him. But tonight, in this kitchen, with me, it’s a no. The last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings, but my duty is to protect my own first. I place my hands on his enormous shoulders and whisper, “I can’t.”

As fast as he came onto me, he stops, nods, and accepts my boundary with grace.

Instead of sulking or suggesting we talk about what happened, he pops the ice cube into his mouth—so smooth!—and walks to the sink.

“I’ll wash the dishes.”

I tell him I’d really like to do them myself, but he denies my request.

“I like to be helpful. You made dinner. Go have fun.”

I’m aware I should find his offer to wash the dishes generous, but I return to the dining table feeling a little embarrassed he recovered so quickly. I drink enough wine to qualify as emotional processing. He’s not disappointed—not even a little!—which makes me feel like that look of affection he gave me earlier was more akin to the type people show cats or dogs—not potential lovers. It’s a blow to my already fragile heart, which is only made more unbearable as the rest of the group begins to belt “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley, their hands smacking the wooden dining table like a drum, turning our courtyard into the worst karaoke night of my life.

Just when I think I’ll bury my head in my hands and cry at the fucking irony of this song, I stop.

Is what just happened considered “growth”?

Dock Boy feels familiar. Really familiar.

He’s handsome, has a killer smile, and is kind in his own awkward way. It’s not that he did anything wrong by being unbothered when I told him no—of course that’s not wrong, it’s very right, in fact!—it’s that his entire act felt rehearsed, a polished routine, an intimacy unearned. He reminds me of guys I dated in my early twenties: all charm and grand gestures but not enough emotional availability to hold their weight. I also fear he was operating almost entirely from scenes he probably watched in movies—or, worse, porn. Whether he’s actually that type of guy or not, I’ll never know.

I could have done whatever I wanted tonight with no shame, but I realize I can only have a love affair, long or short, when it’s real: When big feelings on both sides are at stake, when the man is ridiculously sweet, completely invested, nauseatingly communicative, and doesn’t hold anything back—and, by some miracle, is completely available and ready. The man I was dating in Mexico City wouldn’t let me into his emotional world enough to really know him, and Young French Sailor was a mind fuck because he seemed like the closest thing I’ve been looking for in terms of sexual chemistry, emotional openness, and intellect before everything got interrupted. It's almost embarrassing to admit I hope there's some version of the future where we still have a chance.

But I’ll take tonight as a win.

I trusted my intuition when it was loud, and I didn’t make a decision I’d have to recover from, even if it would have made surviving a heat wave a hell of a lot more enjoyable.

Lesson: I can no longer find solace in men who aren’t emotionally available, even as a salve. Turns out, I’m on the hunt for the real thing: A sweet guy who gets emotionally invested and is still into kinky things—ice cube down my ass crack included.

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It’s nice to meet you!

My name is Michaela Trimble, and I’ve spent over a decade writing polished travel stories for T: The New York Times Style Magazine, Vogue, Condé Nast Traveler, The Wall Street Journal, Travel + Leisure, W Magazine, TIME, and other leading publications.

Babes In Transit is where the unpolished ones live:

• The wild romances I’ve accidentally had on assignment (when I had a love affair with my Italian boat captain!)

• The missed connections that still haunt me (fall for young French men at your own risk!)

• The sh** I’ve gotten myself into that I can only lay out to my friends over a bottle of wine (how I survived a tantra cult in Bali!)

I’ll still tell you all my best travel tips and tricks—like where to go, where to stay, and what to eat—just with even more of the stories in the mix, the ones I’d normally have to cut.

Some of these stories still make me pee my pants laughing. Others, well… you’ll see. The full who-what-why is on the About page.

I also have a column where I teach emerging writers how to successfully pitch and write for major outlets like I have, including The New York Times, Vogue, Travel + Leisure, Condé Nast Traveler, National Geographic, and more.

For now, sit back and get ready for one hell of a trip!

Long Haul No. 1 departs soon, the column where I tell you a multi-part, novella-style true story of how I live—and loveeeee <3—on the road. Get a window seat. Or upgrade yourself to first class, aka a paid membership!

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Until then, I want to know where the babes are. Say hi in the comments and tell me where you’re reading from!

Love from one babe in transit to another,
Michaela