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51 picks across the catalog.
Old streets, new restaurants, the kind of walking that earns dinner.
A city at 7,000 feet where the light actually does what the paintings say it does. Canyon Road galleries, green chile on everything, a hotel that's been here since the railroad came through. Santa Fe is the Southwest destination that doesn't try to be Sedona.
Three hours south on I-35, Austin stops being a tech-bro punch line the second you check into the Carpenter Hotel and walk to Launderette for dinner. East Sixth is still a mess, but Rainey Street after 10pm and Franklin's at 9am are both worth the specific effort.
Three hours north on the Cascades, you step off into a city where the mountains meet the water and nobody's pretending it's casual. Granville Island for lunch, Stanley Park when the light's right, dinner in Gastown where the servers know wine regions by soil composition.
Two hours south to a town that figured out how to be more than Monticello. The Corner for college-town energy, the Downtown Mall for dinner that matters, and enough vineyards within 20 minutes that you can pick the one where nobody's wearing a sash.
Four days in the world's northernmost capital — a city that runs on geothermal heat and closes its restaurants at 10pm. Blue Lagoon is fine but the city pools are better. The Golden Circle is a rental car cliché. Stay in town, eat fermented shark once, drink coffee four times a day.
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The Gilded Age mansions are there year-round, but the town belongs to you after Columbus Day. Cliff Walk without the crowds, oysters at a corner bar that's been shucking since 1989, a harbor-view hotel that drops its rates when the yachts leave.
Three nights in Los Feliz and the Hollywood Hills — not the Walk of Fame. Chateau Marmont because it's the only hotel that makes sense if you're doing this right. Hikes at sunrise, tacos at noon, the kind of LA that people who live there actually like.
Sand, oysters, the kind of porch where the day just goes.
An hour by ferry from San Diego, you step off the boat into a town with no cars, no chains, and a 1929 casino that never saw a roulette wheel. Two nights gets you past the day-tripper crowds and into the version of Catalina where you hike the interior at sunrise and eat swordfish on the waterfront at 7pm.
A two-street town on Lake Superior where the ferries to the Apostle Islands leave from the same dock where the fishing boats unload. Three nights gets you a kayak morning, a fish boil at sunset, and the kind of bookstore browsing that only works when there's nothing else competing for the afternoon.
Three hours from Seattle, the Peninsula is the Pacific Northwest trip that earns the drive. Rainforest hikes that empty after the first mile, tide pools at Rialto Beach, a lodge dinner where the elk walk past the window. Three nights splits the difference between coast and forest without feeling like you're packing up every morning.
High desert at 3,600 feet with 16 breweries and the Deschutes River running through town. Three hours south of Seattle, you're waking up to Cascade views, eating dinner at a chef-driven spot that doesn't advertise, and realizing the ski town you thought was just for winter works in August.
A city at 7,000 feet where the light actually does what the paintings say it does. Canyon Road galleries, green chile on everything, a hotel that's been here since the railroad came through. Santa Fe is the Southwest destination that doesn't try to be Sedona.
Two hours down the coast to a one-square-mile village where the sidewalks are optional and the cypress trees do more work than the marketing. Stay at La Playa Carmel — the 1904 estate where Doris Day used to live upstairs — and spend a weekend walking to everything that matters.
Three hours north on the Cascades, you step off into a city where the mountains meet the water and nobody's pretending it's casual. Granville Island for lunch, Stanley Park when the light's right, dinner in Gastown where the servers know wine regions by soil composition.
Three hours north of San Francisco, Mendocino sits on bluffs above the Pacific with no beach access and no apologies. The town is eight blocks of carpenter gothic and redwood water towers. Go in October when the fog's back and the crowds aren't.
Two hours on the Washington State Ferry, then you're on San Juan Island with a rental bike and a room at a 1907 inn that still remembers when this was the end of the world. Roche Harbor at sunset, lime kilns in the morning, dinner where the fishermen eat.
Tulum still works if you know when to be where. Early mornings at the ruins before the tour buses, lunch in town not the beach zone, a cenote swim at 3pm when everyone else is napping off mezcal. The jungle boutique hotels are real — pick one that was there before the influencer wave.
A Victorian island in Lake Huron where cars have been banned since 1898. You arrive by ferry, check into the Grand Hotel with its 660-foot porch, and spend two days moving at the speed of a horse-drawn taxi. Fudge shops are unavoidable but the island is bigger than its kitsch.
Four hours up the coast to Ventana Big Sur, where the redwoods meet the cliffs and the fog rolls in around 4pm. Two nights of silence, fire pits at sunset, a Japanese bathhouse built into the hillside. Big Sur stops being a drive-through when you give it a weekend.
90 minutes up the coast to a town that figured out how to be both a beach town and a wine town without losing either. Red tile roofs, white stucco, a harbor that still works. The American Riviera label is lazy — Santa Barbara is better than that.
A Mississippi River town that peaked in 1850 and knows it. Main Street still runs on brick and iron storefronts, the best hotel is an 1855 mansion on a hill, and the whole town shuts down by 9pm in a way that feels like the point. Go in October or March when the tour buses stay home.
Four hours north of Chicago, Door County stops being a summer destination in late September and becomes something better. Orchards you can walk through, fish boils that aren't performance art, a peninsula that empties out the week after Labor Day.
Four days in the world's northernmost capital — a city that runs on geothermal heat and closes its restaurants at 10pm. Blue Lagoon is fine but the city pools are better. The Golden Circle is a rental car cliché. Stay in town, eat fermented shark once, drink coffee four times a day.
The Gilded Age mansions are there year-round, but the town belongs to you after Columbus Day. Cliff Walk without the crowds, oysters at a corner bar that's been shucking since 1989, a harbor-view hotel that drops its rates when the yachts leave.
Two hours north of the city, a corner of Connecticut that knows what it is — white clapboard towns, bookstores that matter, a Saturday farmer's market where the vegetables look like they posed for a photo. Stay at Winvian Farm where your room is a helicopter or a stable or a treehouse, because sometimes absurd is exactly right.
Three nights in Los Feliz and the Hollywood Hills — not the Walk of Fame. Chateau Marmont because it's the only hotel that makes sense if you're doing this right. Hikes at sunrise, tacos at noon, the kind of LA that people who live there actually like.
Trees, trails, fires, fewer people. The cabin kind of weekend.
High desert at 3,600 feet with 16 breweries and the Deschutes River running through town. Three hours south of Seattle, you're waking up to Cascade views, eating dinner at a chef-driven spot that doesn't advertise, and realizing the ski town you thought was just for winter works in August.
The Canadian Rockies without the tour-bus energy. Three nights in a mountain town that earned its reputation before Instagram existed. Turquoise lakes that look Photoshopped in real life, elk walking through downtown at 7am, and a hotel with a hot spring that's been open since 1888.
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Bathhouse Row in a national park, a mid-century motor lodge with thermal water piped into the rooms, and a town that never forgot what it was built for. Hot Springs isn't a spa resort pretending to be authentic — it's the original American spa town that happens to still work.
A mountain town at 4,118 feet where Atlanta people go to disappear for a weekend. Main Street antiques, waterfalls that require actual hiking boots, and the Old Edwards Inn holding down the center like it has since 1878. Go in October when the fog rolls in at 4pm and the town earns its name.
Six hours west of Dallas, the desert town that art made famous finally lives up to the hype. Chinati Foundation installations in old artillery sheds, a hotel that used to be a water-stop tavern, and a sky so dark the Milky Way looks fake. Marfa works because it never tries.
Two hours down the coast to a one-square-mile village where the sidewalks are optional and the cypress trees do more work than the marketing. Stay at La Playa Carmel — the 1904 estate where Doris Day used to live upstairs — and spend a weekend walking to everything that matters.
Two hours from the Bay Area, a lake so blue it looks fake and a single hotel that figured out how to be serious without being a ski resort. Sunnyside sits directly on the water in Tahoe City — lake-view rooms, a deck that gets afternoon sun even in January, and a dining room where locals eat dinner.
Two hours north of Vancouver, Whistler works year-round if you skip the obvious months. Late September or late May — the lifts are closed, the village is half-empty, and the Fairmont still runs like the Fairmont. Hiking the alpine meadows or mountain biking the trails nobody talks about until you're already there.
Three hours north on the Cascades, you step off into a city where the mountains meet the water and nobody's pretending it's casual. Granville Island for lunch, Stanley Park when the light's right, dinner in Gastown where the servers know wine regions by soil composition.
Three hours north of San Francisco, Mendocino sits on bluffs above the Pacific with no beach access and no apologies. The town is eight blocks of carpenter gothic and redwood water towers. Go in October when the fog's back and the crowds aren't.
Two hours on the Washington State Ferry, then you're on San Juan Island with a rental bike and a room at a 1907 inn that still remembers when this was the end of the world. Roche Harbor at sunset, lime kilns in the morning, dinner where the fishermen eat.
90 minutes up the 101, you turn inland and the air changes. Ojai is what happens when a California valley town stays small on purpose — orange groves, one main street, a pink sunset that earned its reputation. Two nights at the Ojai Valley Inn gets you the version of the town that spa-only weekends miss.
Two and a half hours east of LA, Joshua Tree National Park sits at the edge of the Mojave — boulders stacked like sculptures, sunsets that change the rocks every ten minutes, and a town small enough that you'll recognize the bartender on your second night. Stay at a mid-century desert lodge where the pool faces the mountains and every room opens to the rocks.
Tulum still works if you know when to be where. Early mornings at the ruins before the tour buses, lunch in town not the beach zone, a cenote swim at 3pm when everyone else is napping off mezcal. The jungle boutique hotels are real — pick one that was there before the influencer wave.
A Victorian island in Lake Huron where cars have been banned since 1898. You arrive by ferry, check into the Grand Hotel with its 660-foot porch, and spend two days moving at the speed of a horse-drawn taxi. Fudge shops are unavoidable but the island is bigger than its kitsch.
Four hours up the coast to Ventana Big Sur, where the redwoods meet the cliffs and the fog rolls in around 4pm. Two nights of silence, fire pits at sunset, a Japanese bathhouse built into the hillside. Big Sur stops being a drive-through when you give it a weekend.
A Mississippi River town that peaked in 1850 and knows it. Main Street still runs on brick and iron storefronts, the best hotel is an 1855 mansion on a hill, and the whole town shuts down by 9pm in a way that feels like the point. Go in October or March when the tour buses stay home.
Two hours north of Boston to a Vermont town that knows what it's doing in October and May better than it does in February. The Trapp Family Lodge sits on 2,500 acres of meadow and forest — yes, that Trapp Family — with trails that empty by 4pm and a dining room where dinner still means three courses.
Four hours north of Chicago, Door County stops being a summer destination in late September and becomes something better. Orchards you can walk through, fish boils that aren't performance art, a peninsula that empties out the week after Labor Day.
Four days in the world's northernmost capital — a city that runs on geothermal heat and closes its restaurants at 10pm. Blue Lagoon is fine but the city pools are better. The Golden Circle is a rental car cliché. Stay in town, eat fermented shark once, drink coffee four times a day.
The Gilded Age mansions are there year-round, but the town belongs to you after Columbus Day. Cliff Walk without the crowds, oysters at a corner bar that's been shucking since 1989, a harbor-view hotel that drops its rates when the yachts leave.
A three-night reset in the Blue Ridge foothills — the Omni Grove Park Inn on the mountain, Biltmore Village for bookstores and bread, and enough good coffee and breweries to justify the drive twice over. Go in October or April when the leaf-peepers and summer crowds are somewhere else.
Seventeen hours door-to-door to see the waterfall that makes Niagara look like a lawn sprinkler. Stay at the Victoria Falls Hotel — the pink colonial relic that's been here since 1904 — and walk to the falls before breakfast while the spray catches morning light. Zimbabwe earns the flight.
Two hours north of the city, a corner of Connecticut that knows what it is — white clapboard towns, bookstores that matter, a Saturday farmer's market where the vegetables look like they posed for a photo. Stay at Winvian Farm where your room is a helicopter or a stable or a treehouse, because sometimes absurd is exactly right.
Skytop Lodge has been in the Poconos since 1928 and hasn't tried to become something it isn't. Lake, golf, archery, fireplaces, three meals a day in a dining room that means it. Go for the version of the Poconos that was there before the heart-shaped tub jokes.
Three nights, one new country. Done by Sunday night.
The Canadian Rockies without the tour-bus energy. Three nights in a mountain town that earned its reputation before Instagram existed. Turquoise lakes that look Photoshopped in real life, elk walking through downtown at 7am, and a hotel with a hot spring that's been open since 1888.
Four days in the world's northernmost capital — a city that runs on geothermal heat and closes its restaurants at 10pm. Blue Lagoon is fine but the city pools are better. The Golden Circle is a rental car cliché. Stay in town, eat fermented shark once, drink coffee four times a day.
Seventeen hours door-to-door to see the waterfall that makes Niagara look like a lawn sprinkler. Stay at the Victoria Falls Hotel — the pink colonial relic that's been here since 1904 — and walk to the falls before breakfast while the spray catches morning light. Zimbabwe earns the flight.
Drafted by our agent, kept on the list when they hold up. Labeled honestly.
Three hours north of Newark, you're in a town with a general store that still matters and a swimming hole the locals protect like a secret. Memorial Day weekend means the Norman Rockwell Museum is open, the ice cream stand has its first real line, and the inn serves dinner on the porch again. Bring the kids — this is the trip that earns the drive.
An hour by ferry from San Diego, you step off the boat into a town with no cars, no chains, and a 1929 casino that never saw a roulette wheel. Two nights gets you past the day-tripper crowds and into the version of Catalina where you hike the interior at sunrise and eat swordfish on the waterfront at 7pm.
A mountain lake two hours from San Diego that earns the drive. Cedar cabins with woodstoves, dinner at a trout house that's been here since 1952, and the kind of cold morning air that makes you understand why people keep coffee mugs by the bed. Two nights gets you the lake loop, the bakery everyone drives up for, and the version of Big Bear that isn't jet skis in July.
An hour east of Portland on I-84, where the Columbia Gorge turns into a wind tunnel and the town that grew up around it knows exactly what it is. Kiteboarding if you're into it, wine tasting if you're not, a hotel with a rooftop bar where you watch both happen at once.
Two hours north of Phoenix and 5,000 feet cooler. A town square with an actual courthouse, pine trees that don't belong in Arizona, and a whiskey bar in a building older than statehood. Stay at a Victorian that survived the territorial days, eat dinner at a place that doesn't need a website.
Two hours south, the desert city that got food right before Phoenix did. Sonoran hot dogs at midnight, a tasting menu in a converted gas station, and a mid-century motel with a pool that photographs better than it has any right to. Stay downtown, walk 4th Avenue twice.
Three nights at the South Rim in a stone lodge built in 1935. You wake up to the canyon from your room, hike the Rim Trail at sunrise before the tour buses arrive, and eat elk at a restaurant that overlooks the thing itself. The Grand Canyon earns the superlatives—GOOT's job is to tell you when to go and where to stay.
Two hours north of Phoenix, the elevation changes everything. Ponderosa pine forests at 7,000 feet, a downtown that never became a strip mall, and the kind of burger-and-beer lunch that resets a week of bad decisions. Summer means 70° highs when the Valley's hitting 110°. Winter means actual snow.
Red rocks that photograph better in person, a spa town that earned it, and hiking that starts at your hotel door. Three nights gets you past the vortex tour buses and into the version of Sedona where the light at 7am is the main event.
Two hours east of Nashville, the Smokies' main drag got loud somewhere in the 1970s and never looked back. The GOOT move is staying above it all at Blackberry Farm, eating what Foothills Parkway looks like at 7am, and doing exactly one tourist thing on purpose — the Roaring Fork Motor Nature Trail before the RVs wake up.
A two-street town on Lake Superior where the ferries to the Apostle Islands leave from the same dock where the fishing boats unload. Three nights gets you a kayak morning, a fish boil at sunset, and the kind of bookstore browsing that only works when there's nothing else competing for the afternoon.
A port city on the north shore of the world's biggest lake. Grain elevators against black water, a brewpub in a century-old warehouse, a morning hike that ends at a waterfall you can walk behind. Two nights gets you past the Aerial Lift Bridge selfie and into the version of Duluth that locals defend.
A Colorado ski town that stayed small on purpose. Elk Avenue is eight blocks of Victorian storefronts and one excellent taco truck. Four nights gets you two powder days, one afternoon at the Nordic center, and dinner at a restaurant that sources from the valley it sits in.
Rocky Mountain National Park's front door, minus the national park crowds if you time it right. Two nights at a lodge where elk graze the lawn at dawn, a sunrise hike before the parking lots fill, and a dinner at a restaurant that earned its reputation before Instagram existed.
A cabin with a porch that looks at mountains, not neighbors. Two hours west of DC, you're on Skyline Drive by lunch, sitting in front of a fire pit by dinner. No agenda except the hike you pick in the morning and the bottle of wine you open at 4pm.
Three hours from Seattle, the Peninsula is the Pacific Northwest trip that earns the drive. Rainforest hikes that empty after the first mile, tide pools at Rialto Beach, a lodge dinner where the elk walk past the window. Three nights splits the difference between coast and forest without feeling like you're packing up every morning.
Mass MoCA in the morning before the busses arrive, a long lunch at Allium, James Turrell's sky-space at sunset. Three nights in the Berkshires is the culture weekend that doesn't make you choose between the museum and the hike — you do both, then eat dinner somewhere that sources from farms you drove past.
Four hours through the Smokies to a mountain town that figured out beer and breakfast before the rest of the South caught up. Two nights gets you the Biltmore if you want it, the breweries if you don't, and a Sunday morning drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway when it's still yours.
A cabin in the woods two hours from Newark. No Wi-Fi you'll miss, a fireplace that works, and a Saturday morning hike that ends at a diner where the pancakes are the size of the plate. This is the trip where you remember what quiet sounds like.
High desert at 3,600 feet with 16 breweries and the Deschutes River running through town. Three hours south of Seattle, you're waking up to Cascade views, eating dinner at a chef-driven spot that doesn't advertise, and realizing the ski town you thought was just for winter works in August.
The Canadian Rockies without the tour-bus energy. Three nights in a mountain town that earned its reputation before Instagram existed. Turquoise lakes that look Photoshopped in real life, elk walking through downtown at 7am, and a hotel with a hot spring that's been open since 1888.
A city at 7,000 feet where the light actually does what the paintings say it does. Canyon Road galleries, green chile on everything, a hotel that's been here since the railroad came through. Santa Fe is the Southwest destination that doesn't try to be Sedona.
Bathhouse Row in a national park, a mid-century motor lodge with thermal water piped into the rooms, and a town that never forgot what it was built for. Hot Springs isn't a spa resort pretending to be authentic — it's the original American spa town that happens to still work.
A mountain town at 4,118 feet where Atlanta people go to disappear for a weekend. Main Street antiques, waterfalls that require actual hiking boots, and the Old Edwards Inn holding down the center like it has since 1878. Go in October when the fog rolls in at 4pm and the town earns its name.
Six hours west of Dallas, the desert town that art made famous finally lives up to the hype. Chinati Foundation installations in old artillery sheds, a hotel that used to be a water-stop tavern, and a sky so dark the Milky Way looks fake. Marfa works because it never tries.
Three hours south on I-35, Austin stops being a tech-bro punch line the second you check into the Carpenter Hotel and walk to Launderette for dinner. East Sixth is still a mess, but Rainey Street after 10pm and Franklin's at 9am are both worth the specific effort.
Two hours down the coast to a one-square-mile village where the sidewalks are optional and the cypress trees do more work than the marketing. Stay at La Playa Carmel — the 1904 estate where Doris Day used to live upstairs — and spend a weekend walking to everything that matters.
Two hours from the Bay Area, a lake so blue it looks fake and a single hotel that figured out how to be serious without being a ski resort. Sunnyside sits directly on the water in Tahoe City — lake-view rooms, a deck that gets afternoon sun even in January, and a dining room where locals eat dinner.
Two hours north of Vancouver, Whistler works year-round if you skip the obvious months. Late September or late May — the lifts are closed, the village is half-empty, and the Fairmont still runs like the Fairmont. Hiking the alpine meadows or mountain biking the trails nobody talks about until you're already there.
Two nights in Yountville — the town that built itself around The French Laundry and kept going. Walk to dinner at three restaurants that take reservations, bike through vineyards that don't charge tasting fees, sleep at a hotel that understands you're not here for a bachelorette party.
Three hours north on the Cascades, you step off into a city where the mountains meet the water and nobody's pretending it's casual. Granville Island for lunch, Stanley Park when the light's right, dinner in Gastown where the servers know wine regions by soil composition.
Three hours north of San Francisco, Mendocino sits on bluffs above the Pacific with no beach access and no apologies. The town is eight blocks of carpenter gothic and redwood water towers. Go in October when the fog's back and the crowds aren't.
Two hours on the Washington State Ferry, then you're on San Juan Island with a rental bike and a room at a 1907 inn that still remembers when this was the end of the world. Roche Harbor at sunset, lime kilns in the morning, dinner where the fishermen eat.
90 minutes up the 101, you turn inland and the air changes. Ojai is what happens when a California valley town stays small on purpose — orange groves, one main street, a pink sunset that earned its reputation. Two nights at the Ojai Valley Inn gets you the version of the town that spa-only weekends miss.
Two and a half hours east of LA, Joshua Tree National Park sits at the edge of the Mojave — boulders stacked like sculptures, sunsets that change the rocks every ten minutes, and a town small enough that you'll recognize the bartender on your second night. Stay at a mid-century desert lodge where the pool faces the mountains and every room opens to the rocks.
Tulum still works if you know when to be where. Early mornings at the ruins before the tour buses, lunch in town not the beach zone, a cenote swim at 3pm when everyone else is napping off mezcal. The jungle boutique hotels are real — pick one that was there before the influencer wave.
A Victorian island in Lake Huron where cars have been banned since 1898. You arrive by ferry, check into the Grand Hotel with its 660-foot porch, and spend two days moving at the speed of a horse-drawn taxi. Fudge shops are unavoidable but the island is bigger than its kitsch.
Four hours up the coast to Ventana Big Sur, where the redwoods meet the cliffs and the fog rolls in around 4pm. Two nights of silence, fire pits at sunset, a Japanese bathhouse built into the hillside. Big Sur stops being a drive-through when you give it a weekend.
90 minutes up the coast to a town that figured out how to be both a beach town and a wine town without losing either. Red tile roofs, white stucco, a harbor that still works. The American Riviera label is lazy — Santa Barbara is better than that.
A Mississippi River town that peaked in 1850 and knows it. Main Street still runs on brick and iron storefronts, the best hotel is an 1855 mansion on a hill, and the whole town shuts down by 9pm in a way that feels like the point. Go in October or March when the tour buses stay home.
Two hours north of Boston to a Vermont town that knows what it's doing in October and May better than it does in February. The Trapp Family Lodge sits on 2,500 acres of meadow and forest — yes, that Trapp Family — with trails that empty by 4pm and a dining room where dinner still means three courses.
Four hours north of Chicago, Door County stops being a summer destination in late September and becomes something better. Orchards you can walk through, fish boils that aren't performance art, a peninsula that empties out the week after Labor Day.
Two hours south to a town that figured out how to be more than Monticello. The Corner for college-town energy, the Downtown Mall for dinner that matters, and enough vineyards within 20 minutes that you can pick the one where nobody's wearing a sash.
Four days in the world's northernmost capital — a city that runs on geothermal heat and closes its restaurants at 10pm. Blue Lagoon is fine but the city pools are better. The Golden Circle is a rental car cliché. Stay in town, eat fermented shark once, drink coffee four times a day.
The Gilded Age mansions are there year-round, but the town belongs to you after Columbus Day. Cliff Walk without the crowds, oysters at a corner bar that's been shucking since 1989, a harbor-view hotel that drops its rates when the yachts leave.
A three-night reset in the Blue Ridge foothills — the Omni Grove Park Inn on the mountain, Biltmore Village for bookstores and bread, and enough good coffee and breweries to justify the drive twice over. Go in October or April when the leaf-peepers and summer crowds are somewhere else.
Seventeen hours door-to-door to see the waterfall that makes Niagara look like a lawn sprinkler. Stay at the Victoria Falls Hotel — the pink colonial relic that's been here since 1904 — and walk to the falls before breakfast while the spray catches morning light. Zimbabwe earns the flight.
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Louisville as home base, three distilleries picked for character over Instagram potential, a dinner at Jack Fry's that makes the case for Southern dining at its least showy. Kentucky whiskey tourism is everywhere now — this is the trip for people who want the bourbon without the bus tour.
Two hours north of the city, a corner of Connecticut that knows what it is — white clapboard towns, bookstores that matter, a Saturday farmer's market where the vegetables look like they posed for a photo. Stay at Winvian Farm where your room is a helicopter or a stable or a treehouse, because sometimes absurd is exactly right.
Three nights in Los Feliz and the Hollywood Hills — not the Walk of Fame. Chateau Marmont because it's the only hotel that makes sense if you're doing this right. Hikes at sunrise, tacos at noon, the kind of LA that people who live there actually like.
