REW Travel

13/04/2026

A little behind-the-scenes on how your trips actually come together…
I’ve been sharing bits of our upcoming trip to Spain, and I realized there’s something most people don’t fully see.
The division of roles.
When I plan a trip, I’m the architect.
I’m thinking about the why behind everything—
the pacing, the energy of each place, how it all flows together, what will actually make this trip feel like yours.
I’m holding the big picture.
But I’m not the one physically on the ground in Spain making sure your driver shows up on time, your guide knows your kids’ names, or that your transition from hotel → activity → train → next destination happens without friction.
That’s where partners like Family Twist come in.
They’re the builder.
They take the vision and execute it—beautifully.
They’re confirming every transfer.
Vetting every guide.
Adjusting in real time when something inevitably shifts (because something always does).
They are the reason you’re not standing on a curb in a foreign country wondering where your car is.
Or trying to coordinate three different confirmations in a language you may or may not speak…with your kids melting down beside you.
Could you piece all of this together yourself?
Of course.
But what you can’t replicate is the seamlessness.
The invisible handoff from one moment to the next.
The feeling that everything is just…handled.
So that instead of managing logistics,
you’re actually present.
With your kids.
With your partner.
Inside the experience you spent so much time and money creating.
That’s the difference.
Not just access.
Not just recommendations.
But orchestration.
And when it’s done well—you barely notice it.
Which is exactly the point.

12/04/2026

Why you shouldn’t book with me.

If you want a beautiful hotel, a well-known name, and a trip that checks all the boxes—you don’t need me.

The internet is very good at that. You can easily book that yourself, in your pajamas with a cup of coffee.

And so are a lot of excellent Virtuoso Travel advisors. If your goal is something like a Four Seasons stay, I’ll happily point you in that direction. I’ve worked with Fisher & Stout and she’s exceptional.

What I do is different.

I’m not trying to give you more options.

I’m trying to remove the wrong ones.

Because right now, there is so much to choose from that most trips start to look the same.

Different place, same experience.

The people who work with me aren’t looking for more.

They’re looking for someone to see clearly from lived experience and decide what actually matters.

That’s where a trip starts to feel like something.

30/03/2026

A helpful crowdsourced tool for you in these trying and uncertain TSA times, my friends: https://www.linetime.at

I will continue to lovingly suggest you get TSA Precheck AND CLEAR- and in some cases the TSA touchless ID- just to cover all your bases and speed through security as best you can.

Crowdsourced TSA security wait times — submitted by real travelers.

29/03/2026

There are certain moments when a calendar drop feels less like logistics…and more like a *summons.*

The Opéra national de Paris just released their 2026/27 season and I audibly gasped when I saw it: **Turandot is back.**

If you know, you *know.*

This is not just another night at the opera.
This is velvet seats + a hushed Parisian audience + that first, unmistakable swell of Giacomo Puccini’s score…

…and then *Nessun dorma.*

The kind of moment that makes you sit a little straighter.
That reminds you why you book the trip in the first place.

Because travel—real travel—isn’t just about where you stay.
It’s about placing yourself inside something unforgettable.

And Paris in opera season?
It delivers that in a way very few places on earth can.

If this is your sign to build a trip around a single, breathtaking experience…take it.

I already am.

✨ Who’s coming with me?

Giacomo Puccini

15/03/2026

Team Carry-On vs. Team Checked Bag

Had a funny travel debate with a new friend recently. She is vehemently Team Checked Bag. Meanwhile another friend and I were sitting there like… absolutely not. Carry-on for life.

To me, waiting at baggage claim feels like the travel version of purgatory. You’ve already landed, you’re ready to start the trip—and now you’re just standing there staring at a conveyor belt hoping your bag shows up... iffffff it shows up?

Over the years I’ve actually come to enjoy the challenge of a carry-on. How little can I bring and still feel like myself stylistically? A few dresses, a good hat, sandals, maybe a layer—and suddenly you’re building entirely different outfits out of the same little capsule.

It’s not really about minimalism. It’s about editing.

I’ve even managed to convert my mom to Team Carry-On, and my kids are now carry-on travelers too. (Which feels like a parenting win)

Now, obviously there are exceptions. Ski trips get a checked bag hall pass. But otherwise… if it doesn’t fit in a carry-on, it probably doesn’t need to come.

So I’m curious:
Are you Team Carry-On or Team Checked Bag?
And if you’re firmly Team Checked Bag… I’d genuinely love to hear your case. 😄

02/03/2026

I don’t think it’s an accident that I left Spain in love with the color combination of blood red and saffron yellow. 💛🇪🇸❤️

Those colors feel like the country itself — heat and sun, danger and devotion, ceremony and fire.

Spain carries a brutal history in its bones. You feel it in the stone, in cathedral shadows stretching across ancient plazas, in the pregnant silence before music begins, in the way emotion isn’t diluted. There is an intensity there that is different. Passion is not decorative — it’s lived. Pride is not loud — it’s embodied.

You even see it in the landscape.

As you drive through the countryside, across different autonomías, the silhouette of the Osborne Group bull rises unexpectedly against the horizon. Stark. Black. Graphic. The Osborne bull stands alone against the harsh terrain — unapologetic, immovable, iconic.

That image has stayed with me for years.

There is something about that contrast — the brutal sun against the dark form — that captures Spain’s essence. Strength without ornament. Symbol without explanation.

You see that same intensity in the art.

In the dark, defiant majesty of Francisco Goya.
In the spiritual elongation and storm-lit skies of El Greco.
In the fractured boldness of Pablo Picasso — beauty and brutality sharing the same canvas.

You see it in the flamenco dancer — spine lifted, chin steady, skirt cutting the air like a blade.
You hear it in the powerful female vocalists of southern Spain — voices that do not ask permission. Ancient. Commanding. Fierce. Women not to be taken lightly.

Like the bullfighter circling his opponent in the ring — measured, controlled, fully present.
Like the relentless cante of Camarón de la Isla — aching, powerful, impossible to ignore and impossible to forget.

That energy stays with you.

When I lived there, I absorbed more than language or landmarks. I absorbed essence. My posture shifted. It shaped my emotional resilience — it was by no means a walk in the park culturally. Spain demands presence. It sharpens you.

Spaniards are exceptionally well dressed. Not in a try-hard way. In a composed way. Even in the heat. Even casually. There is intention. There is polish. There is self-respect woven into daily life. I firmly believe cultural respect begins the moment you step foot on foreign soil.

Dressing for the occasion in Spain means being pulled together. Structured silhouettes. Clean lines. Color with conviction. Nothing sloppy. Nothing accidental.

Because style is a signal that speaks before you do. It tells the culture hosting you: I see you. I honor you. I came prepared.

Travel transforms us.

But how we dress determines how we meet that transformation- I am ready to be transformed again. ✨❤️💛

23/02/2026

I’ve never fit neatly into one box.

At home in art museums and with a shotgun.
In a Pilates studio and on a fishing boat.
In a dive bar and in a Venetian palazzo.
Or better yet — in a Venetian dive bar?

For a long time I thought I was supposed to choose a lane.
I was looking for a tribe, too.

Full luxury or Reddit rabbit-hole DIY.
Intellectual or practical.
Refined or rugged.
City mouse or country mouse.

But the older I get, the more I realize how often we limit ourselves as a form of self-protection.
“I couldn’t possibly” rolls off the tongue much easier than “I’m too scared to try.”
We have one off experience and declare:
That’s it. NEVER AGAIN. I’m not a ______ person.

So we join groups.
We signal — subtly or not so subtly.
We decorate our cars and bios like résumés of belonging.
Red Sox or Yankees.
HARVARD MOM.
. .

A whole tableau of bumper stickers hoping to signal… what exactly?
Alignment? Recognition? Safety on the morning commute?
It makes sense. Belonging feels safe.

But what if preference isn’t identity — it’s just preference?
What if there’s wisdom in trying things that don’t match our brand?
Walking into rooms where we feel slightly overfaced — or better yet, walking in because we feel overfaced? I like to call that putting a little water in the gas tank. Seeing how your operation works outside of a perfect system. Letting it ride a little bit. Does that idea sound scary...or exciting?

Appreciating the awe-inspiring beauty of the Sistine Chapel and still knowing how to fix a leaky faucet.
(Or at least knowing the names of the people you trust to fix it — and asking about their families.)

Shopping local not because it’s trendy, but because you’re part of a community of families building something together.

Time is short.
There are too many rooms I want to visit.
Too many tastes to taste, smells to smell, art to soak in.
Too many experiences that might surprise us — or confirm that yes, we still hate chocolate and orange together. ( )

I hope we don’t have to be just one thing forever.

Maybe we just have to crack the door and let a little light from another room spill in.

19/02/2026

Is nostalgia just a path back to yourself?

The older I get, the more it feels that way.

I watched My Neighbor Totoro yesterday and found myself tearing up. A child of the ’80s, I grew up on beautiful animation. That love never really left — it just waited patiently for me to notice it again.

Totoro — this gentle, magical creature — would have been exactly my kind of movie as a little girl. I definitely would've named one of my barn cats Totoro. Japanese anime and aesthetic have quietly threaded themselves through my life ever since. They shape conversations with my two oldest kids who love Jujutsu Kaisen and Demon Slayer. They’ve even influenced our decision to travel to Japan next year. When they said I remind them of the Stone Hashira- I was so touched, I cried (he would, too).

So why do we abandon our childlike selves as if they were phases instead of foundations?

I used to shut myself in my room and dance in front of the reflection in my bedroom window.

I still dance in the early morning hours.
Little has changed.

My heart nearly burst when my oldest daughter said she wants Egypt for her graduation trip. Baby Jacque used hieroglyphic stamp kits to write notes and lived for quizzes that assigned her a mythological goddess. Little has changed.

There is something wildly healing about listening to Percy Jackson with my kids. About my oldest son thanking me for being “cool” and showing them anime and Pacific Rim. About the youngest debating which kaiju is more badass at the dinner table.

I remember thinking it was extraordinary that my best friend in fourth grade got to visit Rome. She brought me back stickers and wore a Kappa tracksuit. I remember saying, Someday I will.

And I did. I do.

Rome no longer feels like another world. It’s part of the world I’ve built — for myself, and now for my children.

I get emotional building this life. It is so easy for me to love my husband and my children and my people. It’s not their job to make me happy — but loving them feels like coming home to myself.

I think baby Jacque would be proud.

We’re going to Japan.
We’re going to Egypt.
The Kappa tracksuit didn’t make the cut — but all my kids have Napoli jerseys 😉

15/02/2026

Thoughts on the Disney Dream to Nassau.