Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
We spent a month on the move—across islands, mountains, and desert cities. Eight flights, trains, rental cars, and unfamiliar roads stitched together a route through Southern Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco. What emerged wasn’t just a trip but a series of moments that reshaped how we experience the world as a family.
Mallorca: Salt Air and Slow Mornings
We began in Cala Llombards, a quiet corner of Mallorca defined by limestone cliffs, clear water, and simple pleasures. No resorts. No agenda. Just daily swims, beachside picnics, and the rhythm of slow travel.
One of the highlights: sailing along the north end of the island, watching the coastline unfold in dramatic, jagged layers. The boat gave us a different view of the island—untouched coves, wind-carved stone, and the freedom of open water. For a week, time stretched in the best way.
Southern Spain: History You Can Feel
From Mallorca, we flew into Sevilla, where the scent of orange blossoms lingered in the air and flamenco drifted from quiet courtyards. The city feels like a mosaic—Moorish archways, Gothic cathedrals, tiled fountains, and winding alleys that beg to be explored.
We wandered through the Alcázar, its architecture a living record of the city’s layered past, and crossed bridges into Triana for ceramics and local tapas. Sevilla felt alive in every sense—textured, vivid, soulful.
Granada brought a quieter kind of wonder. The Alhambra is one of those rare places where history humbles you. In its carvings, courtyards, and gardens, you feel the gravity of centuries. The white villages of Andalusia—like Arcos de la Frontera—offered a change of pace: hilltop serenity, whitewashed homes, and long afternoon walks beneath the sun.
Morocco: Echoes of the Past, Energy of the Present
Fes was a long-awaited stop—one I had imagined for years. Having spent time in Aleppo, Syria and Sanaa, Yemen, I was drawn to the enduring spirit of Arab cities with deep historical roots. Fes completed that map for me.
Wandering the medina felt like stepping into a city both ancient and intact. The maze-like streets, centuries-old madrasas, and sound of artisans at work spoke of a living tradition. Fes doesn’t cater to the outsider; it invites you to adapt, to observe, to learn.
Essaouira was a beautiful contrast. Breezy, bright, and easygoing. We stayed at Le Jardin des Douars, tucked into the hills just outside town. There, we learned to cook traditional Moroccan dishes, rode camels beneath a wide sky, and ended each day on a rooftop terrace as the light faded over olive groves and terracotta rooftops.
What Remains
This trip wasn’t about rushing from place to place. It was about being in each one fully—slowing down long enough to notice the details, the patterns, the way people live. Traveling together gave us not just new sights, but new shared memories—ones we’ll carry for years.
We returned with more than photos. We came home with a deeper appreciation for stillness, for difference, for beauty in all its forms. And with a quiet reminder that the best way to understand the world is to walk through it, together.
Yucatán, Revisited
Yucatán, Revisited
I’ve always wrestled with the idea of writing about travel. Not just describing places or listing top-ten-anythings, but grappling with what it actually means to move through a place and let it shape you.
On one end of the spectrum, you have the titans—Hemingway, Paul Theroux—the kind of writers who sell the sizzle, not the steak. They let you feel the air of a place without telling you what restaurant to book or how many pesos to tip. On the other end: “content.” SEO-choked listicles, AI-fed beach rankings, or the human equivalent—people who spend 72 hours somewhere and publish a definitive guide.
There’s almost no middle ground. And while I crave it, I’m not interested in becoming that guy either.
Even Saveur, once our household travel compass, has shifted to online-only. And though I hold out hope, the magic feels like it’s in limbo.
So let’s get this straight:
I’m not here to tell you where to go in the Yucatán.
I’m definitely not going to tell you how to find the places we found.
And I’m not going to upload coordinates or drop names in your DMs.
Yemen? Sure, I’ll share. You’re not going there next spring break. But the Yucatán? That’s different. Too many places that once felt wild now feel washed out, reshaped by algorithms, influencers, and an entire travel economy bending itself into what it thinks the Western traveler wants.
But here's what I will say:
We went back. Twenty years after our honeymoon, Lindsey and I returned to the southern edge of Tulum, the very last stop before you cross into the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve. Back then, it felt like the edge of the world. This time, it was harder to find that feeling; but not impossible.
We celebrated our 20th anniversary there. Just the two of us. Quiet, remote, raw. A few days later, our close friend flew down with our kids and met us in Mexico. We scooped them up and made the long drive to a completely off-grid house on a 10-mile stretch of private beach. No power most nights. No flushing toilets. No backup generator. And honestly, no regrets.
After a week there, our friend caught a bus out, and we made our way to our third and final location as a family of four. Even more remote. Even less defined. The kind of place that doesn’t appear in a sidebar list.
If you're into resorts, wristbands, and curated experiences, this isn't your kind of story. If you want to hear about the trip, pour a mezcal and come over. I’ll tell you about the roaches, the power outages, the things that didn’t work, and the quiet moments that did.
But I’m not here to sell a version of travel. I’m here to protect it.
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Before we left, I was surprised how many people asked, “Wait, where are you going again?” Followed quickly by, “Where is that?”
Oaxaca is a state in southern Mexico, but it’s also the name of the capital city, Oaxaca de Juárez. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to go.
Most Americans’ experience of Mexican food skews heavily toward the north—border states, Tex-Mex, or the kind of “Mexican” cuisine tailored to fit a certain palette. It’s not unlike those Italian-American restaurants where everything’s drowned in red sauce. Familiar, but not exactly rooted in place.
Oaxaca is different. It’s the culinary soul of Mexico. Mole, mezcal, tlayudas, markets that make you want to spend the day talking to every vendor just to understand what’s in season and why. That was reason number one for this trip: to eat, to learn, to cook, to taste.
The second reason was a little less savory, a little more salt and sun: Puerto Escondido. About seven hours south by road, this stretch of Pacific coastline is home to the famed “Mexican Pipeline.” It’s one of the only spots in the country fully exposed to southern hemisphere swell, and it delivers. Rugged, raw, and alive.
Oaxaca exceeded every expectation. The food, yes, but also the people. We made friends we still keep in touch with. The warmth and generosity we experienced was unforgettable.
