Lately, I’ve found myself adrift in a delicious kind of daydream; the kind that hums like a quiet song under your skin. It begins with a single scent or color and stretches into a thousand possibilities. That’s what future travel feels like to me now; not a checklist, but a pilgrimage of presence.

First stop: Morocco.
Specifically, the cerulean maze of Chefchaouen; the “Blue Pearl.” I imagine myself walking through its indigo alleyways where every wall feels like a watercolor prayer. I’ll sip mint tea on a rooftop at dusk, the breeze perfumed with spices and stories. As the call to prayer rises in the distance, echoing through the hills, I’ll let it wrap around me like a verse I’ve always known but never memorized.

Then, Italy calls; not with urgency, but with a low, delicious whisper.
Southern Italy…maybe the Amalfi Coast, maybe the volcanic soul of Sicily. I want pasta that tastes like an heirloom and air that smells like salt and lemons. A slow kind of travel, where I walk more than I plan and eat more than I rush.

Eventually, I’ll return to the Caribbean.
This time, I’m pulled toward the volcanic heartbeats of St. Lucia or Dominica. I want to wander rainforests that breathe in rhythm with the ocean, to press my feet into black sand that remembers fire. There’s no itinerary…only instinct.

And maybe…just maybe…I’ll vanish into the Scottish Highlands.
A solo retreat among mist and myth. Somewhere wild, wind-swept, and defiantly quiet. Just me, a journal, and a horizon that refuses to be tamed.

I’m no longer traveling for miles. I’m traveling for meaning…for the poetry in geography and the mathematics of memory.

What about you?
Is there a place that’s been calling your name, soft and steady, like a lighthouse through the fog?