In a series of uncharacteristic events, I found myself zigzagging on tortuous roads on the back of a stranger's motorbike with my international carry-on wedged between his feet, rushing to meet my friend's ferry. Two creatives interested in aging and end of life, Lauren and I had traveled nearly 20 hours (from Boston and Chicago) to reach Ikaria, a remote Greek Island where a third of the population is nonagenarian and many centenarian.

Less than an hour into Lauren's arrival, we were hitchhiking in Niko's beater car, nibbling on seaside samphire, wading into medicinal hot springs with our dresses extending into the Aegean like colorful parachutes, poking through his sunroof picking wild plums, and seeing the island through an Ikarian's eyes. Our sun-weathered guide explained to us Ikaria's secrets of longevity: we work when we feel like it, we nap, we use nature to heal us, and we don't stress. "Girls stop worrying," he said as I fiddled for my seatbelt. 

For a week, Lauren and I lived simply on a beautiful vineyard and working farm, eating all things farm to table made by Eleni and her husband Giorgos: soft cheeses, sourdough bread, sour cherry and apricot jams, brined olives, goat stewed in grape molasses, and enjoying wine varietals brought back from ancient times. It's almost as if Lauren and I ended up at a rehabilitation center for tired urban professionals. In Ikaria I found a place where death doesn’t occupy the minds of its inhabitants. They simply live with close family and friends nearby like these octogenarians, friends for over 75 years, drinking ouzo midday. There’s no rush, no race, and very few watches. They are present in each moment.

Equipped with toy-like flashlights, my team and I shuffled along an unlit gravel road to reach our first plantation. For several days we visited plantations of varying kinds: rubber tapping, fruit farming, and gold mining sites. To put ourselves in the shoes of the workers we were designing malaria prevention for and to truly understand their needs, I set our teams out to follow rubber tappers and their sleep / work schedule. We followed them into the plantations near midnight, dragging our weary bodies to bed close to 4 am too tired to properly use our own bed nets, then returning to monitor the collection and processing of rubber a couple hours later. Equipped with a clearer picture of workers' realities, I was truly humbled by the Burmese people we aim to serve.

Driving in Iceland in the winter is a terrifying and humbling experience. Frequent whiteouts, icy and changeable weather, and stretches of unsalted road with an occasional reflector assuring you are still on a road, proved harrowing. Yet each day driving around the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, I witnessed a four-hour pocket of sunlight in the most spectacular way, diffused light against desolate, otherworldly landscapes, bringing sense to Sigur Ros' bleak and beautiful compositions.

Too often my husband and I joke about starting fresh to find and marry nice Danish folk. We love how socially minded the Danes are and oh the design(!), making room in our return luggage for Georg Jensen cutlery, androgynous fashion, and vintage home decor. Fortunately, we’re spoiled with the next best thing. Whenever we head to Copenhagen, we're scooped up alongside his college host family's blonde brood to celebrate momentous days, new family additions, and holidays and on occasion enjoy smokehouse fare near their seaside home.

The last time I had been to Korea was when I was 10, sporting a perm cylindrically-shaped like a gumball, devouring ice pops with my cousins. This time I was venturing out alone, donning a quilted vest and hammer pants at a remote Buddhist temple. The perfect antidote to an around-the-clock work trip, I enjoyed the simplicity and mindfulness of shadowing monks: eating vegetarian dishes my mom used to make, waking up at dawn to sonorous bells ringing, bowing 108 times to chanting, and enjoying tea and life lessons delivered by a comedic monk radiating childlike joy.

"You don't need to shadow cast so much... [Later] What brought you here to fly fish?" 

My sheepish response to our fly fishing guide's question was, "I watched A River Runs Through It, and I thought fly fishing looked relaxing." I could see his knee-jerk reaction. His guess was right. Ok, so I found out I was the umpteenth client of his who had come to Montana to fly fish like Brad Pitt, but I had humorously been his first client who had practiced excessive shadow casting in Chicago alleyways.

Nearly every summer my husband and I visit his grandmother and her husband on the Isle of Springs, a charming island in Boothbay Harbor, ME dotted with family cottages connected by rolling boardwalk. From the dock, we make our five-minute journey by lobster boat turned ferry to an island free of cars and true to its original intent in 1887, a summer haven for those leading a city-pace of life. It’s on and off the island that we dig for clams in the kelp-draped beaches, we taxi over by boat to pick up fresh lobster rolls and heaping ice cream cones, and we soak in spectacular sunsets.

Long ago I read Cranberry Thanksgiving, a children’s book featuring a character’s coveted cranberry bread recipe. Its storytelling paired with place and food instilled in me a fascination with cranberries and their bogs. Years later trekking to Warrens, WI, population of 400, I met Matt C. Rezin, a 7th generation cranberry farmer. Seeing me crane my neck to view a bog out in the distance, Matt invited us to tour his family’s bog, offering up a memorable botany lesson for a cranberry fan.