Travel

On my first trip to Puerto Rico, I noticed something curious. At the airport gate in New York, the atmosphere felt like the start of an international getaway—beach bags, resort wear, the happy chaos of vacationers—but when we landed, there was no immigration line. No passport checks, no customs stamps. Just a walk straight into the Caribbean sun.

A few summers back, I found myself in Rome, elbow to elbow in a crowd outside the Trevi Fountain, half-suffocated by selfie sticks and the collective hum of 500 voices bouncing off marble. I’d dreamt of seeing it since I was a teenager, but in the moment, I felt nothing but irritation. My legs ached, the heat was relentless, and I realized I’d spent the last three days in a blur of lines, tickets, and “must-sees.” By the time I got back to my hotel, I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and avoid sightseeing altogether.

Airports can feel like pocket-sized cities brimming with opportunities to splurge at every turn. From the moment you walk in, the tantalizing scent of freshly brewed coffee and artisanal bakery goods wafts through the air, while the shelves of high-end shops gleam with luxury items begging to be bought.

Shopping for travel gear can feel a little overwhelming. There’s always a new gadget promising to change your life or a flashy suitcase claiming to be “carry-on revolutionized.” But when it comes down to it, what most of us really need is gear that works, lasts, and doesn’t take a chunk out of our travel fund.

Think about the last trip you took. It might have been a whirlwind tour of Europe's most famous capitals or a relaxed retreat somewhere tropical. Yet, amidst the breathtaking landmarks and vibrant cultures, there might have been that unexpected place—a quiet corner café, a remote mountain viewpoint, or even just a cozy hometown street—that resonated more deeply than you expected. It felt like a slice of belonging, a piece of your personal story. Welcome to the concept of place attachment, a fascinating phenomenon that may just be the secret ingredient to crafting more meaningful travel experiences.

There’s a moment that still sticks with me—one of those tiny, ordinary flashes that somehow crystallizes into memory. I was walking down Washington Avenue in Prospect Heights, iced coffee in hand, with a tote bag full of farmer’s market finds and the faint smell of bagels in the air. That morning wasn’t special in any checklist way. But it felt like Brooklyn in its most honest form: neighborhood rhythms, slow details, everyday charm.

There’s a specific kind of traveler who dreams of Japan—not just the bullet trains and temples, but the steaming bowls of ramen slurped at a counter seat, the seven-dollar convenience store bento box that somehow tastes like fine dining, the sound of cicadas in a Kyoto back alley, and the gentle buzz of a Tokyo vending machine at midnight.

If you’ve ever used a travel credit card with points or rewards, you’ve probably seen those shiny portals promising bonus value when you book through them. Sounds like a no-brainer, right? More value for your points, exclusive deals, everything in one place.

Ah, travel. It’s the stuff of daydreams, bucket-list planning, and way too many picturesque Instagram shots. But if you’ve done any kind of globetrotting, you know it’s not all beachfront sunsets and celebratory clinking of glasses. Between delayed flights, lost luggage, and figuring out how to pay for things in foreign countries without getting hit with absurd fees, traveling can be… well, stressful.

There’s a version of travel we’re sold constantly. It looks like perfectly lit croissants in Paris, hammocks strung between palm trees in Bali, and scenic hikes in Iceland (shot with just the right filter). For a while, I thought that was the only way to truly see the world—until my bank account very clearly disagreed.

I didn’t go to Japan looking for a revelation. In fact, my first night at a traditional ryokan—barefoot, jet-lagged, and mildly disoriented by the absence of chairs—felt more like culture shock than serenity. The staff spoke in soft tones. The hallways were lined in wood and silence. And the bed? Not really a bed, but a neatly folded futon on a tatami mat floor that looked elegant but faintly intimidating to my back.

A few years ago, I sat on a faded bean bag in a beach café in Bali—Wi-Fi just strong enough to file a story, coconut sweating in the humidity—when an American freelancer nearby suddenly turned pale. Her laptop was gone. Stolen while she’d ducked into the restroom. “Thank god I have insurance,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Then, after a long pause: “I think I’m covered?”