Opinionated trips, curated by us and drafted by our AI. Filter by what you want to do, how long you have, or how you want to get there.
29 picks across the catalog.
Old streets, new restaurants, the kind of walking that earns dinner.
Three nights in Colombia's walled city where the heat slows you down in the right way. Ceviche at lunch, rum on a rooftop at dusk, cobblestones that turn gold at sunset. Direct from Atlanta means you're sitting in the Old Town by dinner.
Forsyth Park at 7am, lunch on a wraparound porch, dinner somewhere that wasn't a carriage house in 1820. Savannah works because the grid itself is the itinerary — twenty-two squares in two miles, live oaks doing all the work. You don't need a ghost tour. You need a long weekend and shoes you can walk in.
Forty minutes from DC to a colonial port town that still works as a port. Stay at the Naval Academy hotel where the midshipmen's parents stay, eat rockfish at a restaurant older than the republic, walk the brick streets to the harbor and back before checkout.
Colonial Williamsburg is still there, and it's still good — better, actually, when you're the one choosing to go. Stay at the Williamsburg Inn, where the lobby fireplace has been lit since 1937. Walk Duke of Gloucester Street at 8am before the interpreters clock in. This is the version of Williamsburg your teacher couldn't afford.
Two hours up the Hudson, you walk off the train into a town that figured itself out. Warren Street is the whole point — antiques, ceramics, a wine bar where the bartender knows what you want before you do. No car, no plan, no rush.
Sand, oysters, the kind of porch where the day just goes.
Vietnam's beach town two hours from Saigon. Fresh seafood at plastic tables on the sand, a cable car to a 100-foot Christ statue, and a Soviet-era lighthouse you can climb for the view nobody warned you about. Five nights gets you past the Saigon-weekend-crowd rhythm and into the version where you're the only foreigner at the morning market.
Ten days split between Hanoi's Old Quarter and Hoi An's yellow-walled riverfront. Bún chả at the Obama table, a tailor who measures you in the morning and delivers at 4pm, and a motorbike food tour that earns the 5am wakeup call. Vietnam is the trip that makes you reconsider every other Southeast Asia itinerary.
A Channel Island that still runs on its own time. Castle ruins on clifftops, butter that costs what it should, and zero cars on Herm Island. Four nights gets you past St. Peter Port and into the version of Guernsey where the locals surf in October and dinner happens at 7pm because the ferry stops running.
Three nights on the Texas coast for the breakfast tacos, the Selena mural, and a barrier island with 60 miles of sand you can drive on. Corpus is the Gulf trip Houstonians take when they want seafood that tastes like the water it came from, not the cruise port most people think it is.
An hour from Houston, a 19th-century port town with architecture that survived the hurricane and seafood that tastes like the Gulf it came from. The Strand at sunset, oysters at Gaido's, a hotel on the seawall that understands what a beach weekend should cost.
Three nights in Colombia's walled city where the heat slows you down in the right way. Ceviche at lunch, rum on a rooftop at dusk, cobblestones that turn gold at sunset. Direct from Atlanta means you're sitting in the Old Town by dinner.
Forsyth Park at 7am, lunch on a wraparound porch, dinner somewhere that wasn't a carriage house in 1820. Savannah works because the grid itself is the itinerary — twenty-two squares in two miles, live oaks doing all the work. You don't need a ghost tour. You need a long weekend and shoes you can walk in.
Trees, trails, fires, fewer people. The cabin kind of weekend.
Out and back. The whole point is leaving.
Three nights, one new country. Done by Sunday night.
Vietnam's beach town two hours from Saigon. Fresh seafood at plastic tables on the sand, a cable car to a 100-foot Christ statue, and a Soviet-era lighthouse you can climb for the view nobody warned you about. Five nights gets you past the Saigon-weekend-crowd rhythm and into the version where you're the only foreigner at the morning market.
Ten days split between Hanoi's Old Quarter and Hoi An's yellow-walled riverfront. Bún chả at the Obama table, a tailor who measures you in the morning and delivers at 4pm, and a motorbike food tour that earns the 5am wakeup call. Vietnam is the trip that makes you reconsider every other Southeast Asia itinerary.
Seven nights in a city where breakfast is standing at a zinc bar, lunch is three courses at 2pm, and dinner starts at 9:30pm in Trastevere. Stay in Monti for the first half, switch to Trastevere for the back half. The Pantheon at 7am before the crowds. Carbonara at Flavio al Velavevodetto because you tasted the version tourists get and knew there had to be a real one.
Seven nights split between Hanoi's Old Quarter and three days on the water in Ha Long Bay. Pho at 6am from a street cart that's been there since 1979, a junk boat that sleeps eight and costs less than a Manhattan hotel, kayaking through limestone caves at high tide when the tourists are back at the dock.
Seven nights based in Cairo, with three at the pyramids in a 19th-century hotel that overlooks the Giza Plateau from the garden. The Egyptian Museum before the crowds, a felucca on the Nile at sunset, and a meal at Abou El Sid that costs what pharaonic history should cost — nothing.
Seven nights in a city that moves faster than its motorbikes. District 1 for the hotels and the rooftop bars, District 3 for the coffee shops that don't have English menus. Bánh mì at 7am, phở at a place with plastic stools, and a dinner at The Racha Room you'll compare every tasting menu to for the next year.
Seven nights in the Old Quarter and French Quarter. Coffee on a plastic stool at 7am, bún chả at the place Obama sat, a hotel with a rooftop pool overlooking Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi is the Southeast Asian city that hasn't been turned into a selfie backdrop yet.
A Channel Island that still runs on its own time. Castle ruins on clifftops, butter that costs what it should, and zero cars on Herm Island. Four nights gets you past St. Peter Port and into the version of Guernsey where the locals surf in October and dinner happens at 7pm because the ferry stops running.
Seven nights in a city built on volcanic rock, where the Old Town closes in like a medieval fist and the New Town opens into Georgian squares wide enough to breathe. Whisky at a bar with no menu, oysters at the fishmonger's counter, a walk up Arthur's Seat that earns the view. Edinburgh is the European city Americans skip for London and shouldn't.
Six nights in the city that invented pizza and has spent the last 2,700 years refusing to apologize for anything. Stay in Chiaia, eat on Via dei Tribunali, take the ferry to Procida on day four. Naples is the Italian city that doesn't perform for tourists—it just keeps being Naples.
The Golden Temple at 4am when the chanting starts. Partition Museum when you're ready to stop smiling. Butter chicken at the dhaba that invented it, not the one that franchised it. Five nights gets you past the temple-selfie version of Amritsar and into the city that still feeds 100,000 people a day for free.
Punjab's industrial capital isn't on anyone's India itinerary, which is exactly why it works. The dhaba belt on GT Road serves the best butter chicken you'll eat anywhere, the wool market opens at 5am, and the Sikh gurdwaras feed 50,000 people a day for free. Four nights gets you past Delhi's chaos into the India that actually makes things.
Three nights in Colombia's walled city where the heat slows you down in the right way. Ceviche at lunch, rum on a rooftop at dusk, cobblestones that turn gold at sunset. Direct from Atlanta means you're sitting in the Old Town by dinner.
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.
Vietnam's beach town two hours from Saigon. Fresh seafood at plastic tables on the sand, a cable car to a 100-foot Christ statue, and a Soviet-era lighthouse you can climb for the view nobody warned you about. Five nights gets you past the Saigon-weekend-crowd rhythm and into the version where you're the only foreigner at the morning market.
Ten days split between Hanoi's Old Quarter and Hoi An's yellow-walled riverfront. Bún chả at the Obama table, a tailor who measures you in the morning and delivers at 4pm, and a motorbike food tour that earns the 5am wakeup call. Vietnam is the trip that makes you reconsider every other Southeast Asia itinerary.
Seven nights in a city where breakfast is standing at a zinc bar, lunch is three courses at 2pm, and dinner starts at 9:30pm in Trastevere. Stay in Monti for the first half, switch to Trastevere for the back half. The Pantheon at 7am before the crowds. Carbonara at Flavio al Velavevodetto because you tasted the version tourists get and knew there had to be a real one.
Seven nights split between Hanoi's Old Quarter and three days on the water in Ha Long Bay. Pho at 6am from a street cart that's been there since 1979, a junk boat that sleeps eight and costs less than a Manhattan hotel, kayaking through limestone caves at high tide when the tourists are back at the dock.
Seven nights based in Cairo, with three at the pyramids in a 19th-century hotel that overlooks the Giza Plateau from the garden. The Egyptian Museum before the crowds, a felucca on the Nile at sunset, and a meal at Abou El Sid that costs what pharaonic history should cost — nothing.
Seven nights in a city that moves faster than its motorbikes. District 1 for the hotels and the rooftop bars, District 3 for the coffee shops that don't have English menus. Bánh mì at 7am, phở at a place with plastic stools, and a dinner at The Racha Room you'll compare every tasting menu to for the next year.
Seven nights in the Old Quarter and French Quarter. Coffee on a plastic stool at 7am, bún chả at the place Obama sat, a hotel with a rooftop pool overlooking Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi is the Southeast Asian city that hasn't been turned into a selfie backdrop yet.
A Channel Island that still runs on its own time. Castle ruins on clifftops, butter that costs what it should, and zero cars on Herm Island. Four nights gets you past St. Peter Port and into the version of Guernsey where the locals surf in October and dinner happens at 7pm because the ferry stops running.
A Southern city that earned its reputation the hard way — 300 years of cooking, a peninsula you can walk in an afternoon, and a restaurant scene that doesn't need to announce itself. Three nights gets you past the carriage tours and into the oyster bars that matter.
Seven nights in a city built on volcanic rock, where the Old Town closes in like a medieval fist and the New Town opens into Georgian squares wide enough to breathe. Whisky at a bar with no menu, oysters at the fishmonger's counter, a walk up Arthur's Seat that earns the view. Edinburgh is the European city Americans skip for London and shouldn't.
A Victorian-era fishing town at the mouth of the Columbia, 90 minutes from Portland. Cannery Row buildings that became breweries, a riverwalk that goes somewhere, and a hotel in a converted 1920s mill where you can see the ships from the bathtub. Two nights gets you past the Goonies house and into the version of Astoria that earns the drive.
Three nights on the Texas coast for the breakfast tacos, the Selena mural, and a barrier island with 60 miles of sand you can drive on. Corpus is the Gulf trip Houstonians take when they want seafood that tastes like the water it came from, not the cruise port most people think it is.
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.
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.
Three hours down I-40 to the city that invented American music and refuses to let anyone forget it. Beale Street is for tourists. The real Memphis is Central BBQ at noon, Stax Museum in the afternoon, and a juke joint in South Memphis where the band starts at 11pm and nobody's checking their phone.
Two and a half hours up I-65 to a city that's figured out how to do bourbon without the bachelorette party energy. Whiskey at a distillery that still makes barrel char by hand, dinner at a chef-owned place that sources from the same farms Thomas Keller calls, a hotel in a converted warehouse where the coffee is legitimately good.
Six nights in the city that invented pizza and has spent the last 2,700 years refusing to apologize for anything. Stay in Chiaia, eat on Via dei Tribunali, take the ferry to Procida on day four. Naples is the Italian city that doesn't perform for tourists—it just keeps being Naples.
An hour from Houston, a 19th-century port town with architecture that survived the hurricane and seafood that tastes like the Gulf it came from. The Strand at sunset, oysters at Gaido's, a hotel on the seawall that understands what a beach weekend should cost.
An hour and twenty minutes down I-35 for breakfast tacos that cost $2.75, a river that winds through downtown without the Disney version, and a hotel in King William that used to be a brewery. Two nights gets you past the Alamo photo and into the San Antonio that locals defend when someone says Austin's better.
Gilded Age mansions on a cliff walk, oysters that cost what they should, and a harbor town that earned its reputation before Instagram. Two nights gets you past the Breakers selfie line and into the Newport that sailors and old money still recognize.
A city where the moss hangs low and the restaurants close at 10pm because nobody's in a hurry. Forsyth Park in the morning, oysters at The Grey for lunch, bourbon on a second-floor porch after dark. Three nights gets you past the trolley tours and into the squares that actually matter.
The Golden Temple at 4am when the chanting starts. Partition Museum when you're ready to stop smiling. Butter chicken at the dhaba that invented it, not the one that franchised it. Five nights gets you past the temple-selfie version of Amritsar and into the city that still feeds 100,000 people a day for free.
Punjab's industrial capital isn't on anyone's India itinerary, which is exactly why it works. The dhaba belt on GT Road serves the best butter chicken you'll eat anywhere, the wool market opens at 5am, and the Sikh gurdwaras feed 50,000 people a day for free. Four nights gets you past Delhi's chaos into the India that actually makes things.
Three nights in Colombia's walled city where the heat slows you down in the right way. Ceviche at lunch, rum on a rooftop at dusk, cobblestones that turn gold at sunset. Direct from Atlanta means you're sitting in the Old Town by dinner.
Forsyth Park at 7am, lunch on a wraparound porch, dinner somewhere that wasn't a carriage house in 1820. Savannah works because the grid itself is the itinerary — twenty-two squares in two miles, live oaks doing all the work. You don't need a ghost tour. You need a long weekend and shoes you can walk in.
Forty minutes from DC to a colonial port town that still works as a port. Stay at the Naval Academy hotel where the midshipmen's parents stay, eat rockfish at a restaurant older than the republic, walk the brick streets to the harbor and back before checkout.
Colonial Williamsburg is still there, and it's still good — better, actually, when you're the one choosing to go. Stay at the Williamsburg Inn, where the lobby fireplace has been lit since 1937. Walk Duke of Gloucester Street at 8am before the interpreters clock in. This is the version of Williamsburg your teacher couldn't afford.
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.
