Guest House

It’s hard to say exactly when I fell in love with travel. Growing up, my family was always on the move—ski trips in New England, day trips to the Breakers in Newport, summer road trips from New Hampshire to Pennsylvania to visit my dad’s family. My parents had an unshakable appreciation for exploration, and whether I liked it or not, they were passing it down to me.

But the first time I truly felt in awe of the world? That was Italy.

I was 15 when my parents planned a two-week family trip through Italy with our neighbors and close friends. We toured the country by bus, hopping from one postcard-worthy city to the next. At the time, I thought I was just along for the ride—another family vacation, but with better food. I had no idea that this trip would completely rewire my brain.

We started in Rome, where I was hit with the realization that I was somewhere old. Not “George Washington slept here” old—ancient. The Colosseum, towering over me in all its crumbling glory, felt like something out of a dream. That night, sitting on the rooftop terrace of our hotel, I heard cheers erupting across the city—locals watching their beloved soccer teams. It was the kind of moment that didn’t make sense to me yet, but I could feel it. The city pulsed with history, with energy, with life.

It was also the night I got drunk for the first time. I swiped some limoncello from my parents—just a small glass, but enough to make me giggly and dramatic, leaning into my Lizzie McGuire fantasy of what this trip should be. We had no idea why our parents were obsessed with bringing bottles of it home, but in that moment, slightly tipsy and full of adventure, I got it. Some things, some places, some flavors—just belong somewhere, and you want to take a piece of it with you.

From Rome, we made our way to Pompeii. I had been studying it in my Latin class, memorizing vocab words about volcanic ash and plaster body casts. But seeing it in person? Haunting. Fascinating. The outlines of a life frozen in time, eerie and strangely personal. That was the first time I remember thinking, There is so much I don’t know about the world.

Then came the Amalfi Coast. We stayed at Hotel Cetus, perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, and I woke up to the kind of view that makes you believe in past lives—because surely, I had been here before. The water was impossibly blue, the air smelled like lemon and salt, and every corner felt cinematic. I was overwhelmed by it all in the best way.

Florence was next. The birthplace of the Renaissance, where every street felt like a museum exhibit. We visited a small leather shop in the countryside, a family business that had been around for generations. The air smelled like fresh leather and warm earth as artisans stitched and carved by hand, telling stories of tradition and craftsmanship. It was hospitality in its purest form—not in a grand hotel lobby, but in the way someone welcomes you into their world, shares something they love, and invites you to appreciate it.

Then, Venice. The floating city, the city of love, the city that, from a distance, looked exactly like the fairytale I had imagined. But then I got closer. And I smelled it.

No one ever talks about the smell. Or the overly persistent street vendors pushing flashing toys into my hands before I even had a chance to say no, grazie. It was my first real lesson in the illusion of travel—the way a place can exist so beautifully in photos, in daydreams, and then present itself in a way that is still magical, just… messier.

Stresa was a dream—this perfect, lakeside town where we stayed at Grand Hotel Des Iles Borromées, a hotel so opulent it felt like a set piece from The Grand Budapest Hotel. We loved it so much that we asked to stay another night, but they politely told us, Sorry, the entire hotel has been booked for [insert actual royalty here]. Cool. Casual.

And finally, Milan. The grand finale. The art, the cathedrals, the sheer scale of it all. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by things that were older than anything I had ever known. I stood in front of paintings and churches that had existed for centuries, feeling like a speck in time.

And, of course, the Trevi Fountain. I had built up this moment in my head—This would be my Lizzie McGuire moment. This would be my cinematic travel awakening. I tossed in my coin, waiting for something magical to happen. Spoiler: no pop star doppelgänger appeared to whisk me away. But something did shift.

I was changed.

Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time. I came home, still fully planning to go to college out of state and become a veterinarian. But hindsight is 20/20. Years later, when I was sitting in my guidance counselor’s office, crying over the fact that I was failing my science classes at Clemson, they asked me:

“What’s next? What do you want to try?”

And somehow, we landed on travel and tourism. That was the next domino. My love deepened. My understanding of people expanded. And even then, I had no idea where it would all lead.

That’s the beautiful thing about life—you don’t always know the path, but the signs are there. The moments, the feelings, the memories—they stay with you, quietly nudging you toward something greater.

And every twist, every misstep, every moment of curiosity led me here.

With you.

So, let’s talk hospitality. Let’s talk travel. Let’s talk about the places that make us feel something. I’m excited for this journey, and I hope, by the end of it, you fall in love with it, too.

Stay lovely,