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. Showing train and drive trips only.
9 picks across the catalog.
Old streets, new restaurants, the kind of walking that earns dinner.
Sand, oysters, the kind of porch where the day just goes.
Four nights on a 34-mile barrier island where the Gulf meets the Laguna Madre. Sea turtle season runs May through September. The birding is better than the beach bars, but the beach bars earn their place after a day on the water. Stay at Isla Grand for the balcony that faces both.
A barrier island in the Gulf where the shells pile up and the speed limit is 35. Four nights at a quiet resort with a lap pool, a fish taco truck that parks at Bowman's Beach at 11am, and a sunset that happens over water warm enough to wade into. This is Florida before it became a brand.
Two hours south on the Overseas Highway to the fishing village that hasn't turned into Key West yet. Tarpon at sunrise, stone crab at lunch, sunset at a tiki bar where the bartender knows the depth chart. Three nights is enough to fish once, eat well twice a day, and stop checking your phone by Saturday.
A Gulf Coast beach town that never went condo. Three miles of hard-packed sand you can drive on, oysters at a shack with picnic tables, and a fishing pier that closes when the red drum stop biting. Port A is the Texas coast before developers figured out what to charge for it.
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Two hours up I-95 to the Maine coast city that figured out how to be a food town without turning into a food scene. Lobster rolls that locals actually eat, a walkable peninsula, and a harbor that still works for a living. Stay at the Press Hotel in the old newspaper building and eat like you mean it.
Trees, trails, fires, fewer people. The cabin kind of weekend.
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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.
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.
Drafted by our agent, kept on the list when they hold up. Labeled honestly.
Four nights on a 34-mile barrier island where the Gulf meets the Laguna Madre. Sea turtle season runs May through September. The birding is better than the beach bars, but the beach bars earn their place after a day on the water. Stay at Isla Grand for the balcony that faces both.
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.
A barrier island in the Gulf where the shells pile up and the speed limit is 35. Four nights at a quiet resort with a lap pool, a fish taco truck that parks at Bowman's Beach at 11am, and a sunset that happens over water warm enough to wade into. This is Florida before it became a brand.
Two hours south on the Overseas Highway to the fishing village that hasn't turned into Key West yet. Tarpon at sunrise, stone crab at lunch, sunset at a tiki bar where the bartender knows the depth chart. Three nights is enough to fish once, eat well twice a day, and stop checking your phone by Saturday.
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 Gulf Coast beach town that never went condo. Three miles of hard-packed sand you can drive on, oysters at a shack with picnic tables, and a fishing pier that closes when the red drum stop biting. Port A is the Texas coast before developers figured out what to charge for it.
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.
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 hours up I-95 to the Maine coast city that figured out how to be a food town without turning into a food scene. Lobster rolls that locals actually eat, a walkable peninsula, and a harbor that still works for a living. Stay at the Press Hotel in the old newspaper building and eat like you mean it.
