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Exploring Beyond the Everyday – Travel Guides & Stories Travel isn’t just about boarding a plane — it’s about breaking routine, expanding perspective, and finding stories in every corner of the world. Our Travel section is designed to help you dream, plan, and actually enjoy the journey, no matter the distance. Whether you’re mapping out a quick weekend escape, organizing a family vacation that keeps everyone happy (yes, even the kids), or chasing a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, we deliver travel inspiration with a personal, practical touch. From hidden gems close to home to bucket-list destinations across the globe, you’ll find guides, tips, and real-life experiences that blend practicality with heart. Think: how to make a road trip less chaotic, where to eat like a local, or what it really feels like to travel as a diverse family. Because travel isn’t just about where you go — it’s about who you become along the way. What You’ll Discover in This Section 1. Destination Guides We spotlight cities, towns, beaches, mountains, and cultural hubs with everything you need to know: top attractions, underrated corners, seasonal highlights, and food worth traveling for. Each guide is written with an eye for detail so you can explore with confidence. 2. Practical Travel Tips Packing hacks, itinerary planning, budgeting strategies, and transportation advice — we cover the nuts and bolts that make a trip smoother. Our goal? To save you time, reduce stress, and help you focus on the fun parts of travel. 3. Family & Group Travel Traveling with kids, parents, or a group of friends is rewarding but challenging. We share strategies for keeping everyone engaged, entertained, and comfortable. From finding hotels with family-friendly amenities to planning activities that balance adult and kid fun, our content speaks to the realities of group trips. 4. Local Experiences Tourist attractions are great, but some of the best memories come from living like a local. We help you discover street food markets, cultural traditions, hidden hiking trails, and community events that most travelers miss. This way, you don’t just visit a place — you experience it. 5. Adventure & Wellness Travel Looking to push your limits? We highlight trekking routes, diving spots, eco-tourism projects, and wellness retreats. Whether it’s adrenaline or relaxation you’re after, you’ll find experiences that rejuvenate your mind and body. 6. Stories That Inspire Beyond the logistics, travel is about transformation. Our writers share personal stories that bring destinations to life — the thrill of meeting strangers who become friends, the perspective gained from seeing how others live, and the lessons learned from stepping outside your comfort zone. Why Our Travel Content Stands Out Balanced Approach: We combine emotional storytelling with actionable advice. You’ll feel inspired and know exactly what steps to take next. Honest & Relatable: No sugar-coating. We talk about the realities of jet lag, budget hiccups, and cultural misunderstandings, alongside the magic of discovery. Inclusive Travel Lens: We understand that travelers come from different backgrounds. That’s why we highlight diverse family dynamics, accessibility considerations, and tips for making travel welcoming for all. Focus on Both Local & Global: From your own city to the other side of the world, our travel section doesn’t limit adventure to distance.
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Latest Articles in Travel
Lesley Aljishi
Travel
Holiday Armor: Why Las Noches Ibiza Just Became Your Post-Divorce Uniform
You know her. She's at the Puente Romano beach club at 3pm on a Tuesday, draped in something that catches light like it's been blessed by the gods themselves. She's got that "I summer in Formentera and winter in Gstaad" energy, except plot twist—she's actually from Sutton and her ex-husband's new girlfriend is 23.That thing she's wearing? Las Noches Ibiza. And before you write it off as another overpriced Ibizan fever dream, let me tell you why this brand just became Marbella's unofficial uniform for women in transition.From Island Nights to Midlife RightsSince 2005, Eric Cherki and his partner Jack have been making what they call "clothes." What they're actually making is emotional armor disguised as bohemian dreamscapes. We're talking military jackets softened with antique lace, architectural kaftans that somehow make you look put-together when you haven't slept properly since 2019, and dresses that move like therapy sessions—flowing, releasing, occasionally catching the light in ways that make you remember you're still here.They started in Ibiza (of course they did), but here's where it gets interesting: they didn't just stay there, getting high on their own supply of island mysticism. They evolved. They moved. They landed in Marbella and opened shop in an old Andalusian house that—and I quote—"enchanted them into staying."Enchanted. In this economy. Imagine having the audacity.The Marbella Makeover Nobody Asked For (But Everyone Needed)When Las Noches hit Marbella, something shifted. The clothes got sharper. Less "I live on a commune and make my own kombucha," more "I own three properties and my therapist says I'm making progress."Their annual fashion show at Plaza Puente Romano has become the event where every woman over 40 pretends she's there for the culture while secretly calculating if she can justify dropping €800 on a hand-embroidered kaftan that she'll definitely wear to... somewhere.But here's the thing—and stay with me here—these pieces actually make sense.The Philosophy of Expensive DenialLas Noches doesn't design for the runway; they design for the 45-year-old who's navigating her daughter's gap year drama while secretly sexting someone she met at a wellness retreat. Their clothes understand that you need:Heritage without the history lesson. Moorish-inspired prints that don't scream "I studied abroad once."Imperfection as a feature. Hand-stitched, slightly asymmetrical, because perfection is for people who still believe in marriage.Pieces that multitask harder than you do. That €500 kaftan? It's a beach cover-up, a dinner dress, and if you're creative, a very expensive way to hide wine stains.Light-catching details that do the work when you can't. Tiny mirrors, gold thread, beading—basically Instagram filters but make it fashion.Why This Matters (Beyond Your Credit Card Statement)Look, we could pretend this is just about pretty clothes for pretty people with pretty problems. But Las Noches landing in Marbella is actually about something bigger.It's about the women who moved here "for the schools" and stayed for the reinvention. The ones navigating that weird space between who they were (London/Moscow/Stockholm professional) and who they're becoming (woman who does "consulting" and has very strong opinions about paddle tennis).These clothes get it. They're built for transition. For women who are simultaneously falling apart and pulling it together. Who need something that works at school pickup and sunset cocktails at Nobu, because that's literally the same day.The Bottom LineLas Noches Ibiza isn't selling clothes. They're selling the possibility that you can emerge from your personal chaos looking like you meant to do that all along.Is it ridiculous to spend what amounts to a mortgage payment on something described as "bohemian luxury"? Yes.Will you do it anyway after your third glass of rosé at their boutique salon event where they're serving organic everything and playing music that makes you feel 28 again? Also yes.And honestly? In this particular moment, in this particular place, with this particular light hitting the Mediterranean while you're trying to figure out what the hell comes next—that's not the worst investment you could make.At least it's not another juice cleanse.Where to find them: Their Marbella boutique is in an old Andalusian house that will make you want to redecorate your entire life. They also pop up at Puente Romano for their annual Plaza show, where you can watch models float by while calculating how many of your problems could be solved by the right kaftan.Spoiler: None of them. But you'll look incredible not solving them.
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Joseph Tito
Travel
THE PUENTE ROMANO PARADOX When Your Kids’ Holiday Is Better Than Yours (And Why That’s Actually Fine)
Listen, we need to talk about something nobody at the school gates in Nueva Andalucía admits out loud. That guilty little fantasy where you drop your kids somewhere safe, fun, and supervised—while you vanish into a spa for three uninterrupted hours.Not because you don’t love them. But because loving them for 18 hours straight during a Spanish summer is an Olympic sport, and, honey, we’re not all gold medalists.Enter Puente Romano Beach Resort—Marbella’s answer to the universal parenting cry for help. And before you roll your eyes thinking “Oh great, another luxury resort that thinks it invented childcare,” hear me out.The Kids Club That Ruined Regular Holidays ForeverLa Casita isn’t just a kids club. It’s a treehouse-having, treasure-hunt-running, heated-pool paradise where your offspring will have a better social life than you’ve had since 2019. Paddleboarding at 9 a.m., magic shows at 11, and by noon your six-year-old is casually name-dropping their “tennis coach Ricardo” like they’re prepping for Wimbledon.The kicker? La Casita has been named one of the world’s best hotel kids clubs—not by the hotel, but by actual travel publications that employ real humans. Your kids won’t just be “kept busy.” They’ll be living their best Mediterranean child-influencer lives while you’re still trying to figure out which SPF works with your foundation.The Teen Situation (Because God Help Us All)Too old for kids club, too young to leave alone with Netflix and prayer—welcome to the middle-school purgatory years.Enter Teen Spirit, Puente Romano’s 13-to-18 zone. Think pool tables, decent burgers from Cheat (because even their junk food is organic, Marbella-style), and spaces where teens can roll their eyes at you while still technically supervised.They’ll befriend someone’s kid from London, Moscow, or Dubai, and next thing you know, you’re approving new Instagram follows at breakfast. It’s international diplomacy, Gen Z edition.The “Let’s Pretend We Do Things Together” PortionPuente Romano has cracked the code on family time: keep it optional and make it beautiful.Want to fake being the “active family”? Book the yacht day—with Nobu bento boxes, because of course there’s sushi at sea. Feeling more Eat Pray Love but with children in tow? There’s a cheesemaking class. And when someone inevitably loses it because their sibling breathed wrong, you’ve got twenty restaurants within walking distance—from Cipriani (for good-behaving children) to Pica Pica (for when you need pizza STAT).The Unspoken Truth About Vacation ParentingLet’s be real: “family vacation” is just parenting in a more expensive location with sand in uncomfortable places.But here’s what Puente Romano understands that most “family-friendly” hotels don’t—parents need real breaks, kids need real fun, and sometimes the best family memory is everyone doing their own thing until dinner.Those interconnecting suites they guarantee? Genius. Your kids are close enough for safety, far enough for you to have an adult conversation after 9 p.m. that doesn’t involve Bluey. And the private villas? That’s the dream—contained chaos with room service.The Bottom LineWill Puente Romano solve your existential crisis about work-life balance? No.Will it make you a better parent? Probably not.Will it give you a few glorious days where your children are entertained by professionals while you remember what your face looks like without a stress furrow? Absolutely.And in this economy—both emotional and financial—that might be the real luxury. Not the marble bathrooms. Not the Nobu sushi. The luxury is the radical act of admitting that sometimes, the healthiest family vacation is one where everyone gets a vacation from being a family 24/7.Because if pandemic parenting taught us anything, it’s that the nuclear family was never meant to be this nuclear. Sometimes it takes a village. And sometimes, that village just happens to have a heated kids’ pool, professional tennis coaches, and a damn good spa.No shame in that game, mama.Travel Tip SidebarPlanning your escape:Kids Clubs run daily programs, but book specialty camps early—every exhausted parent in Marbella has the same idea come school holidays.Teen Spirit fills fast during July and August.And remember: that spa isn’t going to visit itself.
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Angela Marotta
Travel
Il Dolce Far Niente A Lost Art
My childhood summers were spent with my grandparents in a small Italian town where time stood still. Every afternoon after lunch, my grandfather would grab his wooden chair, place it under an olive tree, and sit, becoming one with the stillness of the hot summer landscape and the clicking chorus of cicadas.I waited for him to do something. He just sat there, looking at nothing in particular. "Nonno, ma che fai?" I finally asked. Granddad, what are you doing? He turned to me and answered, "Sitting."At the time I figured he didn't understand the question. I didn't understand what he was doing. Not then. Not for years.In 2019, my eight-year-old daughter and I discovered a café in Saint-Germain near the apartment we were staying at. We would go early in the morning for breakfast before starting our day in La Ville Lumière. Annalise, our server, found my daughter's obsession with pain au chocolat amusing and by day 3 she already had one warm and waiting as we walked through the door. We sat by the window and watched the city wake up—the flower vendor arranging roses, the man who always stopped to let his dog drink from the water bowl outside. On our last morning, Annalise hugged us both, pressed a parting pain au chocolat into my little girl's hands, and said she hoped to see us again soon. My daughter unexpectedly threw her arms around the young server, hugging her as if she were leaving someone she had known her whole life rather than just a week.This wasn't how I'd planned our Paris trip. It became something better.The New Luxury: TimeThere's a word for what my grandfather did under his tree: il dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. In our age of FOMO travel, we collect destinations like stamps in a passport-sized achievement book. Paris: check. Istanbul: check. Machu Picchu: check. We have every day planned out, itineraries mapped out, cooking classes scheduled, reservations booked months in advance to all those restaurants that keep popping up on our Instagram feed—oh, and don't forget the three different beaches you absolutely cannot miss according to every travel blogger who's ever existed. We are very efficient at seeing places. Terrible at actually being in them. You're exhausted. In paradise.By the time you collapse into your airplane seat for the flight home, you need a vacation from your vacation. You spend the first three days back recuperating from what was supposed to restore you, scrolling through hundreds of photos to pick the ones that will be perfect for that reel you are going to post to let everyone see how good a time you had. But did you actually enjoy any of those meticulously planned experiences?Then it's back to the routine—work, obligations, the mechanical rhythm of daily life, and all the while you plan your next escape from where you just escaped from.But something is shifting. Travellers are beginning to reject the crammed must-see bucket list in favor of what some now call the joy of missing out travel—though my grandfather would have simply called it living.It's harder than it sounds. We're programmed for productivity, even in paradise. That voice in your head listing all the things you should be seeing, doing, experiencing. The guilt of flying halfway around the world to sit in a café you could find in your own city.But here's what I've learned: You can spend a week in Paris and see everything while experiencing nothing. Or you can know one café, one park, one street so well that a piece of your heart stays there.The New Luxury: TimeWhen I work with clients planning trips, I try to build in what I call "free time." Entire afternoons with nothing scheduled. No reservations, just go out and discover or literally do nothing. Without fail, these spontaneous moments become their most vivid and treasured memories: the restaurant they stumbled upon, the conversation with locals at a neighborhood bar, the afternoon walking through cobblestone streets without a map.Even the travel world is catching on. Hotels are reimagining luxury as time rather than activities—slow cruises where the journey matters more than checking off ports, train routes through Tuscany where you watch landscapes change gradually with wine in hand, spa retreats where "sleep programs" make doing nothing the entire point. You're not observing local life through a bus window; you're temporarily invited to be part of a community.This pushes against everything we normally do when we travel. It asks us to be present in a new place rather than productive in it. The real test of travel isn't how many sights you've seen, but whether the place changed how you see. My grandfather, sitting under his olive tree every afternoon, understood something we've forgotten in our rush to experience everything: Presence is the ultimate luxury, whether you're in Paris or your own backyard.Creating your own Dolce Far NienteDon't get me wrong. This isn't about throwing your schedule out the window and wandering aimlessly. It's about creating space for the sweetness of life even while travelling. It's about stopping to enjoy those little moments where you lean into your chair, coffee cupped between your hands, and sit with the moment.Instead of accumulating experiences like trading cards, let's lean into what feels good, not what looks good on Instagram. Spend a week in Tuscany picking olives and having dinner with a family at the end of the day on a farm. Choose a neighborhood and learn its rhythms. Have your morning coffee at the same café. These small routines create connection and transform you from tourist to temporary resident. Walk instead of taking taxis. The in-between moments often hold the most magic.We may not always have the luxury of long stays at our destination, but even then, we can find a pocket of presence. One unhurried morning, or a meal without checking the time.But here's the real question: What happens when we return home? As we settle into fall routines—school drop-offs, work deadlines, soccer practice, parent-teacher conferences. Can we maintain this practice of presence?The answer lies not in overhauling our schedules but in finding our own versions of my grandfather's tree. It's finding those pockets of stillness. Maybe it's five minutes with your morning coffee standing outside to enjoy the silent stillness of a city stillasleep before checking emails. Perhaps it's sitting in your car for a moment before heading into the office, or simply standing at your kitchen window, watching the leaves change colour.Since Paris, my daughter now asks for "pain au chocolat mornings" at home—our code for unhurried weekend breakfasts.I never got a chance to tell my grandfather I finally understood what he was doing under that tree. But sometimes, when I manage to sit still long enough to hear my own breathing, to notice the light through the window, to feel the weight of the mug in my hands—I can almost see him there. Still sitting. Still teaching me, decades later, that the sweetness isn't in doing nothing.It's in being present enough to taste it.il dolce fare niente.Angela Marotta, CEO and founder of Marotta Travel, is a travel designer with three decades of experience in the travel industry, having spent most of her career living and working in Italy and Mexico. Her mission today is to provide uniquely tailored travel experiences with purpose.
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Joseph Tito
Travel
Istanbul: The Night I Stopped the Cab
I went to Istanbul for work.Meetings. Business dinners. Handshakes and strategy talks and the kind of scheduling that makes you forget what day it is. I was there to do a job, check the boxes, fly home. That was the plan.But Istanbul doesn't care about your plan.The funny thing about doing business in Istanbul is that nobody actually does business right away.We'd end up in the Grand Bazaar — this ancient, chaotic, sensory-overload maze where vendors are hustling spices and textiles and copper lamps, and every corner smells like something you want to eat. I'm there ready to talk strategy, timelines, deliverables. You know, work.But they sit you down first.And before you can even open your mouth about the deal, they're bringing you Turkish tea. In those tiny tulip-shaped glasses that burn your fingers if you're not careful. Not because they're trying to butter you up. Not because it's a sales tactic. Because that's just how it's done. You're a human first. The business comes second.There's no rush. No urgency. Just this unspoken understanding that if you're going to do something together, you should probably actually see each other first.It's such a simple thing. But when you've spent your whole life in a culture that treats efficiency like a religion, it's disarming. In the best way.I'd sit there, sipping tea I didn't ask for, surrounded by the noise and chaos and life of the Grand Bazaar, and think: When did we forget how to do this?After a full day of meetings, my brain fried and my body tense, I did what you're supposed to do in Istanbul: I went to a hamam.A Turkish bath. The real deal.It's not a spa. It's not Instagram-worthy in the way Westerners want things to be. It's ancient and steamy and a little intimidating if you're not ready for it. But the ritual — the tradition of it — is something else.You lie there on heated marble, sweating out every ounce of stress, and then these old men come over and scrub you down. And I mean scrub. Like they're peeling off not just dead skin but every bad decision, every petty argument, every moment you spent worrying about something that didn't matter.But it's their eyes that got me.These men — weathered, patient, probably in their seventies — had stories in their eyes. Decades of them. You could see it. They didn't speak much, but they didn't have to. There was something almost sacred about the way they moved through the ritual. Like they were keepers of something bigger than themselves.I walked out of there feeling… clean. Not just physically. Clean.Ready to pack my bags, catch my flight, go back to real life.I got in a cab. Told the driver where I was going. We pulled into traffic.And then — maybe two minutes in — I said, "Stop."Not because something was wrong. Not because I forgot something.I just… couldn't leave yet.I couldn't go back to the hotel, zip up my suitcase, and pretend this city was just another stamp in my passport. I couldn't board that plane without actually feeling this place one more time.So I got out.I didn't have a plan. I didn't Google "best spots in Istanbul." I just started walking.The cobblestones were uneven under my feet. The kind of streets that have been walked for centuries. And then I heard it — music. Live, raw, pouring out from somewhere I couldn't see yet. It pulled me like a thread.I followed it down a narrow pathway, past shuttered shops and tiny cafés, and there it was: this beautiful French bistro tucked into the corner like a secret. Outdoor tables, string lights, that kind of effortless charm that makes you feel like you stumbled into the right moment at the right time.I sat down. Alone.And before I knew it, I wasn't alone anymore.Conversations just… happened. Not small talk. Not "Where are you from?" surface-level tourist stuff. Real conversations. The kind where you're laughing and debating and sharing stories like you've known these people for years. Strangers who felt like old friends within minutes.We talked about life. About cities. About why some places grab you and others don't. About what it means to actually be somewhere instead of just passing through.I paid my bill and kept walking.And that's when I found the bar.It wasn't fancy. It wasn't trying to be anything. Just a small place with warm light spilling onto the street. I walked in, ordered a drink, and ended up talking to the owner.We talked for an hour. Maybe more. About Istanbul. About what it means to build something. About how the best things in life happen when you stop trying to control them.It was one of those nights that felt… I don't know… possible. Like the universe was saying, "You just have to show up. The rest writes itself."And here's what Istanbul taught me that night:If you open your eyes and open your heart, the possibilities are endless. The people you meet are endless.You can spend your whole life moving through places without ever actually arriving. You can have the meetings. Check the boxes. See the sights. And still miss the whole damn point.I'd been in Istanbul for days. But I hadn't been there. Not really. Not until I stopped that cab and let the city take over.Istanbul doesn't let you stay in your head. It doesn't let you hide behind your schedule or your phone or your comfort zone. It demands more. It demands that you show up — as a person, not a tourist. And when you do, when you let yourself be open to what's in front of you, it gives you everything.People kept messaging me during my trip: "Are you safe?" "Is it dangerous?" "Should I be worried?"Let me be blunt: I have never felt safer in my life.Not just physically safe — though yes, that too. But safe in the way that matters. Safe to be a person. Safe to wander. Safe to stop a cab in the middle of traffic and trust that the night will take care of you.Istanbul isn't dangerous. It's not chaotic in a "run for your life" way. It's chaotic in a "this city is alive and you're part of it now" way.It's ancient mosques rising out of the skyline like they've been watching humanity mess things up for centuries and they're still patient about it. It's ferries crossing continents like it's your morning coffee run. It's street food that tastes spiritual. It's vendors pouring you tea before you talk business because you're a human first. It's old men in hamams carrying centuries of ritual in their eyes. It's strangers who look at you like they're actually seeing you.I've been around the world. I've lived in the Middle East, traveled through Europe, modeled in cities I barely remember, survived airports that felt like personality tests.But nothing — nothing — has hit me the way Istanbul did.Because it reminded me of something I'd forgotten:You can plan your whole life. Or you can stop the cab.Istanbul taught me to stop the cab.To walk. To listen. To sit with strangers and let the night unfold. To trust that when you open yourself up, the world meets you halfway.It's not cute. It's not curated. It's not pretending to be anything other than what it is: raw, real, ancient, alive, generous, big-hearted, and unapologetically itself.And maybe that's why I fell for it.Because I don't need perfect.I need honest.Istanbul is honest.And I can't wait to go back.
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Angela Marotta
Travel
The Mom who told her Son to get Lost
“I want to go, but it’s not like we’re friends or anything. What if I hate it? What if I get there and I’m just bored and…alone?” he said. Not loud. Just quiet, like maybe if he didn’t give the words too much power, they might disappear. He stared at the table, not at me - the way you do when you wish someone would let you off the hook.I sat in the garden across from my 19-year-old son, talking about backpacking through Europe — first on his own, and then halfway through meeting up with a family friend’s son he had known his whole life and yet, in many ways, barely knew. It’s not as if he had never travelled without us before. But this time was different. This time he would be truly alone — no friends, no familiar faces, just unfamiliar places and possibility. I wanted him to see it through my lens: new cities, long train rides, cafés, late nights surrounded by other young travellers learning life one day at a time, crooked streets that lead everywhere and nowhere, the kind of stories that don’t just happen – they’re lived. And yet, the pull of the unknown wasn’t enough to drown out the whisper of fear.“Listen to me,” I said - not gently, but with the weight and hesitation of my own parental fear. “Life isn’t about waiting for all the stars to align. It’s about aligning them yourself. If you wait, they never do. Not perfectly. Not all at once.” And as I told him to go, to get lost and discover new places; to take the chance, another voice tugged at me. The one that wanted to keep him close, safe, untouched by anything unpredictable. The one that wanted to say, “Stay here where I can protect you.” But I’ve had to learn – again and again - not to let that voice drive my decisions, not just for myself, but for the people I love more than my own life.Half annoyed, half nervous he looked at me. I could see his expression, so, I pushed a little more. “One day,” I continued, “your life will fill with responsibilities and no longer be just your own. Work. Bills. People counting on you. You’ll look back at this exact moment. The trip you could’ve taken. The places you could have gone to. The people you could have crossed paths with. The chances you had. The fear that stopped you and the sting of letting it decide for you.”My voice softened then, but I didn’t let the truth slip away. “Don’t let fear guide your decisions. Follow the voice that will make you braver, wilder - the one that wants you to live life.”He said nothing. Just sat with it, letting it sink in. And I let the silence do its work, because sometimes the most important messages just need to land. And honestly, that’s all I wanted. Fear doesn’t politely knock at your door. It kicks it open. It closes your throat and suffocates your words and presses its weight on your chest. Fear of failure. Fear of not being enough. Fear of not moving fast enough or too fast. Fear of being seen – or worse of being invisible. Fear of being alone. Fear of getting lost. Fear everything will change…or that nothing will. Fear is the background noise that never shuts up. Like a thief in broad daylight, it is quiet, slow and comes in unannounced to steal those moments that later become regrets. Every compromise, every goodbye, every lost opportunity. And parenting doesn’t remove fear - it just multiplies it. At some point though, we stop leading and start holding space. Our children stand on the edge of possibility glancing back to make sure we’re still there. It takes courage to let them lose control without losing themselves. It’s hard to watch and not fix. To stand by and see the moments when the world won’t match their plans and knowing you can’t protect them from everything. Fear doesn’t disappear because you face it or ignore it. It breathes with you. It holds your hand in the dark. I carry with me something someone once said to me, “Take your fear by the hand and walk with it into the unknown.” Not crush it. Just take its trembling hand and take that step forward anyway. Fear may seem like certainty or safety. It’s simply the moment the road meets the fog where the familiar becomes a blur. And strangely enough, it’s when certainty starts showing cracks where something deeper begins - the unraveling that is inevitable for growth.I can only speak from where I am sitting and my own experiences. I too was 19, when I found myself alone in a new country, new culture, new people. It wasn’t glamorous. It was uncomfortable. Long walks with no one to talk to. Seeing something beautiful with no one to turn to. Time eventually shifted that void into space. Space to linger on a park bench for hours and watch the sun go down without being rushed. Space to go down a street because I found it interesting. Space to follow curiosity instead of consensus. Slowly, I became a part of something. I learned new rhythms, new languages, new customs. Ordering coffee like a local in Rome; anticipating the familiar call to prayer that drifted through the air in Istanbul; Friday nights in Tel Aviv, joining the flow of people carrying flowers through the streets on their way to Shabbat dinner with friends - both new and old; finding my pace in Mexico City’s beautiful, organized chaos. It was subtle but the transformation began. For me, travelling, getting lost and finding myself out in the world disrupted my truths, handed me perspective, taught me patience, passion, tolerance and empathy. No grand gestures – just little, unexpected rituals. It shows up in that brief exchange of words with a stranger while having your coffee. Or getting a little lost with someone who is just as lost as you are. Sometimes those meetings last a day and sometimes they turn into friendships that span a lifetime. They aren’t curated moments but rather honest, unplanned and real. They are people you might have never met if you hadn’t walked out the door. People you had nothing in common with except that moment in time you shared. It is exactly in those moments where you meet yourself – and the world – in ways you would have never imagined. You become your best travel companion; your biggest cheerleader and you start to witness your own wonder. It is about finding the space to learn what you love, discover who you are, and what makes you smile when no one is around to influence the answer. It’s about the unexpected people you cross paths with along the way reminding you that the world is wide, alive and waiting for you. This isn’t just about travel. It’s about life. About the moments when people – whether at 19 or 59 – are paralyzed by their fears. The ones that say, “Maybe someday.” The ones that wait for the right time, the right people, the right circumstance and the perfect plan. The magic of travelling - and YES getting lost - is where a whole new world begins to unravel. Not out there but inside of you. A sense that everything you were clinging to was never meant to hold you forever. A place where fear becomes a witness rather than a warden. It is to dare see things differently and experience life through a new lens that keeps building who you are and who you will become. For all those wondering how this story ends. He woke up the next morning and booked his flight. He stepped away from the familiar, from his thoughts and the comfort of what he knew. He didn’t let fear steer him. It just went along for the ride in the passenger seat.He came back different. Not because the world changed - but because his world did. Angela Marotta, CEO and founder of Marotta Travel, is a travel designer with three decades of experience in the travel industry, having spent most of her career living and working in Italy and Mexico. Her mission today is to provide uniquely tailored travel experiences with purpose. https://www.marottatravel.ca/
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Joseph Tito
Travel
The County Called, and I Answered (With My Credit Card)
A Love Letter to Prince Edward County, Where Time Moves Like Honey and Everyone Actually Gives a DamnI went to Prince Edward County on business. Two days, over fifty businesses to visit. I was there to introduce local shops to our newly launched BTC App—September baby, still got that new app smell. The plan was surgical: in, pitch, out, next.The County had other plans.What actually happened? I made it to exactly twelve businesses in 48 hours because I couldn't stop talking to people. Not networking. Not schmoozing. Actually talking. Like humans used to do before we all became walking LinkedIn profiles.Catherine Pacak at POA Studio? We talked for nearly an hour. An HOUR. In retail time, that's basically a lifetime. She wasn't checking her phone, wasn't eyeing the door, wasn't giving me the polite-but-get-the-fuck-out smile. She was just... there. Present. Asking real questions. Telling real stories. Making me remember why I started this whole magazine thing in the first place—because connection matters more than content metrics.And that's the thing about Prince Edward County that no tourism board will tell you: It's not just pretty. It's not just sophisticated. It's a place where people still look at each other. Where "How are you?" isn't rhetorical. Where a wine tasting turns into a therapy session and nobody's mad about it.Let's talk about "The County" (only tourists call it Prince Edward County, like only tourists call San Francisco "Frisco"). It's this almost-island jutting into Lake Ontario, about two and a half hours from Toronto, where vineyards kiss the water and Victorian buildings house boutique hotels. It's Napa Valley's cooler, less try-hard Canadian cousin who reads actual books and makes their own kombucha.But here's what the travel blogs won't tell you: The County isn't great because of what it has. It's great because of what it doesn't have. No Starbucks on every corner. No mall. No sense that everyone's racing toward some invisible finish line. Instead, you get purple barns full of Chardonnay, shops where the owners remember your name after one visit, and the radical notion that maybe, just maybe, we don't all have to be hustling every goddamn minute.When Business Becomes Pleasure (And Pizza)I stopped for lunch at The Royal Hotel because a girl's gotta eat, and holy shit. The pizza. THE PIZZA. Wood-fired perfection that made me reconsider every life choice that led me to eating pizza anywhere else. But then—because apparently The County doesn't do anything halfway—I ended up buying croissants and sourdough from their bakery that were so good I ate one in my car like some kind of carb goblin. No shame. Only flaky, buttery bliss.This is what I mean about The County: You go in for lunch, you leave with an armload of baked goods and an existential crisis about why you don't live somewhere that makes bread this good.At the Merrill House – If you’ve ever wanted to live inside a Victorian fantasy without the drafty hallways, check out the Merrill House. Rich in character, dripping with charm, and run by the kind of women who make you feel less like a guest and more like family.Walking in, I felt like a harlot from the 1800s making her grand entrance—lace, scandal, and all. I came to introduce myself and the app. Twenty minutes later, I was laughing so hard I had to excuse myself to use their bathroom. THEIR BATHROOM. These women—who manage this Victorian B&B like it’s their personal mission to restore your faith in humanity—had me cackling over stories of their worst guests, their best wines, and the time someone asked if the house was haunted. (It’s not, but they considered inventing a ghost just for the Airbnb reviews.)It’s indulgent, it’s intimate, and it’s the kind of place that sends you home with not just memories, but anecdotes you’ll retell at every dinner party for the next decade.The Universe Has a Sense of Humor (And It Lives in The County)On my way home, already drunk on human connection and possibly Chardonnay, I spotted PEC Wine Tours. Three women were standing outside, and because I apparently can't help myself, I stopped to chat. Within minutes, I was telling them about my day, apologizing for being "such a Chatty Cathy."One of them—silver-haired, perfect lipstick, the kind of woman who definitely has stories—looked at me and said, "You're too young to know about Chatty Cathy. That was a doll from the 1940s." Then she added, "I still have mine."She STILL HAS HERS.At some point she said something slightly pessimistic about the weather or business or who knows what, and I—because I have no filter when I'm happy—said, "Oh, stop being such a Negative Nancy."The silence. The other two women burst out laughing."Her name is Nancy," one managed to say through tears. "And that's literally what we call her. Negative Nancy."Nancy—ACTUAL NANCY—stood there grinning. "Been my nickname since forever. I'm a twin, and I was always the pessimistic one."I almost fell over. "You're a TWIN?"Here's the thing: I'm a dad of twins. And I literally—LITERALLY—call my kids Chatty Cathy and Negative Nancy when they're being, well, chatty or negative. It's our thing. They roll their eyes, I keep saying it, family tradition in the making.So here I am, a twin dad, accidentally calling an actual twin named Nancy "Negative Nancy"—which is her actual nickname—after discussing Chatty Cathy dolls from the 1940s. What are the fucking odds? In what universe does this happen?This universe. The County universe. Where coincidences aren't coincidences, they're the universe showing off.Nancy and I stood there laughing—two people connected by twins, by nicknames, by the absolute absurdity of this moment. My twins would die. They'd absolutely die. "Only you, Papa," they'd say. "Only you would accidentally stumble into this."This is when I knew The County wasn't just a place. It was some kind of vortex where the universe comes to fuck with you in the best possible way. Where a business trip turns into a series of perfect, impossible moments that make you wonder if someone up there is just having a laugh at how perfectly weird life can be.A Hundred Ways to Fall in LoveLook, I could tell you about all the wineries—and there are dozens, each with their own personality, their own purple barn or lakefront view or vegan certification. I could list every boutique, every spa, every perfectly curated shop where the owners actually give a damn about you finding exactly what you need, even if it means sending you to their competitor down the street.But that's not the point.The point is that The County offers something we've forgotten we need: genuine human connection served alongside really good wine. It's a place where business meetings turn into therapy sessions, where lunch turns into a religious experience with pizza, where three strangers will teach you about 1940s dolls and make you feel like you've known them forever.The Secret Ingredient Is Actually Giving a FuckEvery person I met in The County was genuinely interested in everyone else. Not networking-interested. Not what-can-you-do-for-me interested. Just... interested.The boutique owner who spent an hour telling me about her customers' lives—not their sizes, their LIVES. The B&B owners who had me in stitches over nothing and everything. The wine tour ladies who turned a two-minute interaction into a memory I'll carry forever.One shop owner told me, "We're all in this together here. If someone comes looking for something I don't have, I walk them down the street to someone who does. Their success is our success."When's the last time you heard that in Toronto? Or New York? Or anywhere?I thought I was going to The County to launch an app. To check boxes. To visit fifty businesses in forty-eight hours like some kind of capitalist superhero.Instead, I found myself sitting in my car, eating the world's most perfect croissant, thinking about Catherine at POA who really saw me, about the Merrill House women who made me laugh until I cried, about three strangers who gave me a history lesson wrapped in a moment of pure joy.This is what we've lost. This is what we're all scrolling through our phones trying to find. Connection. Presence. The radical act of slowing the fuck down long enough to learn about a doll from the 1940s.Your Permission Slip to Give a DamnThe County doesn't ask you to care more. It just creates space for you to care differently. To care slower. To care with wine in your hand and someone actually listening to your answer when they ask how you are.You don't go to Prince Edward County to escape your life. You go to remember what life feels like when you're actually living it. When you're not performing it for Instagram or optimizing it for productivity or apologizing for taking up space in it.You go to eat pizza that makes you question everything. To laugh with strangers who become friends. To buy bread that's so good you eat it in your car like a secret. To learn about Chatty Cathy dolls and realize that the best moments are the ones you never planned.Two days. Fifty businesses on my list. Twelve actual visits. One bathroom break from laughing too hard. Three women who schooled me on vintage dolls. And a County full of people who haven't forgotten that the best luxury isn't what you can buy—it's how you feel when someone genuinely gives a damn.So go. Book any of the dozens of places to stay—Victorian B&Bs, Nordic cabins, boutique hotels, they're all good because the people are good. Eat the pizza. Buy the bread. Try all the wine—there are more wineries than you can hit in a week, each one different, each one worth it. Talk to strangers. Learn about dolls. Laugh until you need the bathroom.The County is calling. Answer with your whole heart.And maybe your credit card. Those croissants really are fucking incredible.Between the Covers traveled to Prince Edward County in September to launch the BTC App with local businesses. We stayed longer than planned. We regret nothing.
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Joseph Tito
Travel
Home Alone (Abroad) for the Holidays Solo Travel as Self-Care
I made a promise to my mother when I was fifteen, standing in Pearson Airport with a modeling contract in my backpack and terror in my chest. She drove me there herself, gripping my hands in the departure lounge before I boarded my flight to Milan.“No matter where in the world you go,” she said, “you come home for Christmas. Promise me.”I promised.And for twenty years, I kept that promise. Shoots in Seoul that ran until December 23rd, fashion weeks that bled into the holidays, heartbreaks in Rome, even a stint in the Middle East—I always found my way back to Richmond Hill, Ontario. Back to my mother’s house, where the tree went up by December 11th, the smell of sauce hit you before you opened the door, and enough food to feed all of Woodbridge magically appeared.But one Christmas, at thirty-five, I broke that promise. And it might have been the best decision I ever made.The Annual Interrogation BeginsSix months earlier, the family group chat had already begun its annual assault. "What time should we expect you?" "Should I make the guest room ready?" "Your cousin Sarah is bringing her new boyfriend—you'll love him!" Each message felt like a tiny papercut, accumulating into something that made me want to throw my phone into the nearest body of water.The subtext, as always, was deafening. At 35, I was still single, still "figuring things out," still deflecting questions about when I was going to "settle down and give us some grandchildren." In my Italian-Canadian family, being unmarried at my age wasn't just unusual—it was practically a medical condition requiring intervention.What made it worse was the delicate dance I'd been performing for years. Some family members knew I was gay. Others lived in blissful denial. And still others—like my 89-year-old nonna who still lit candles for my "future wife"—existed in a space where I couldn't bear to shatter their carefully constructed hopes.The holidays had become an elaborate performance where I played the role of "Joseph, the world traveler who just hasn't found the right girl yet." I'd developed an entire repertoire of responses: "I'm focusing on my career," "The right person will come along," and my personal favorite, "I'm too picky"—which always got a knowing laugh from the aunts who assumed this was somehow a virtue.But this year felt different. Maybe it was turning 35. Maybe it was watching my younger cousins get married and have babies while I was still explaining why I didn't have a plus-one. Or maybe it was just exhaustion—the bone-deep weariness that comes from hiding pieces of yourself for the sake of other people's comfort.The Great Escape ArtistDon't get me wrong—I love my family. But somewhere between my mother's casual updates about other people's kids, my automatic relegation to the children's table, and the general assumption that my life was somehow less complete or important because it didn't include a spouse and 2.5 children, I realized something had to give.The breaking point came during a particularly painful family dinner in October. We were all gathered for my nephew's birthday, and as usual, the adults were seated at the main table discussing grown-up things—mortgages, school choices, vacation plans that revolved around children's schedules. And there I was, squeezed between my eleven-year-old niece and my teenage nephew, helping cut cake and wiping frosting off faces."Joseph doesn't mind," my aunt said when someone questioned the seating arrangement. "He's used to it."I smiled and nodded, but something inside me cracked. Used to it. As if being treated like a perpetual child was just my lot in life because I hadn't followed the prescribed path of marriage and reproduction. Later that night, I found myself googling flights to anywhere that wasn't home for Christmas.A third of Americans don't even count holiday family visits as a "vacation," and 71% say they need a separate trip to unwind afterward. I was tired of being a statistic. More than that, I was tired of being a lie.So I did what any rational 35-year-old man who'd spent two decades traveling the world would do. I booked a flight to Buenos Aires and told my family I was "exploring new holiday traditions."The responses were swift and brutal. My mother cried. Actually cried. "But you promised," she said, and I could hear twenty years of Christmas mornings in her voice. "You always come home."My father was quieter but somehow more devastating. "I don't understand, Joseph. We're your family. What's more important than family?"The guilt was crushing. But not enough to make me cancel the flight.Deck the Halls with Guilt and Existential CrisisThe first 48 hours in Buenos Aires were a special kind of hell. Christmas Eve morning, I woke up in my hotel in Palermo to a barrage of family photos flooding my phone. Everyone looked so goddamn happy, gathered around our family table where my empty chair stood like an accusation.My mother had texted me a photo of the place setting she'd made anyway—my grandmother's china, the napkin folded just so, a small wrapped gift beside the plate. "In case you change your mind," she wrote.I threw my phone across the room and immediately regretted it, rushing to check if the screen had cracked. It hadn't, but something in me had.The guilt was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. In Italian families, abandoning Christmas isn't just disappointing—it's practically sacrilege. I could practically hear my ancestors rolling in their graves, muttering about ungrateful children who don't understand the meaning of famiglia.But then something strange happened. I left my hotel and walked into the summer heat of an Argentine December, and for the first time in months, I could breathe.Finding My People (And Myself)Christmas Eve in Buenos Aires is nothing like Christmas Eve in Richmond Hill. The city pulses with life—families grilling asado in the parks, couples strolling along the river, street musicians playing tangos that make your chest ache in the best way.I found myself at a small café in San Telmo, feeling conspicuously alone among all the families and couples. But then I noticed him—another solo diner, maybe my age, reading a book and occasionally glancing up at the street life with the same mixture of curiosity and melancholy I felt."American?" he asked when I accidentally caught his eye."Canadian, actually," I said. "You?""Dutch. But living in Berlin now." He gestured to the empty chair at his table. "I'm Erik. And I'm guessing you're also running away from something."We talked for three hours. About families who love you but don't really know you. About the exhaustion of performing versions of yourself that keep other people comfortable. About what it means to choose yourself when everyone you love expects you to choose them instead.Erik was spending Christmas alone because he'd recently come out to his very traditional Catholic family, and the resulting fallout had made the holidays feel more like a hostage situation than a celebration. "I figured," he said, "that being alone and honest was better than being surrounded by people and lying."I nearly choked on my wine. "Fuck," I said. "Are we the same person?"The Tango Between Truth and TraditionChristmas Day proper was when the real magic happened. Buenos Aires on Christmas is like a city that's decided to throw its own party instead of following the rules. Everything feels possible, untethered from the weight of tradition and expectation.I spent the morning at a milonga—a tango gathering in a community center where dancers of all ages came to move and connect. I'd never tangoed in my life, but something about the music, the heat, the complete anonymity of it all made me say yes when an older woman asked me to dance."First time?" she asked in accented English as we stumbled through the basic steps."At tango, yes. At a lot of things, apparently."She laughed. "Sometimes we must travel very far to find what was always inside us."Later, eating empanadas in a park while watching families celebrate around me, I realized she was right. I wasn't running away from my family—I was running toward myself. The self I'd been hiding under layers of careful performance and calculated omissions.I called my mother that evening. It was 2 AM in Richmond Hill, but I knew she'd be awake—she never slept well when one of her children was missing."Ma," I said, and I could hear her sharp intake of breath."Are you okay? Are you safe?""I'm safe," I said. "Just know that I love you."The Real Holiday SpiritHere’s what I learned while eating empanadas on Christmas in Buenos Aires: sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and for your family—is stop performing and start being real.The holidays aren’t meant to be an endurance test. They’re not meant to suffocate you under everyone else’s expectations. And if yours do? Book the damn flight.That Christmas in Buenos Aires was ten years ago. I’m forty-five now. Married. A father of twin girls who already know more about honesty than I did at their age. And every December, when we sit around the tree in King City, Ontario—with my husband passing plates, my daughters tearing into presents, my mother sneaking them extra cookies—I think about that night. The fireworks. The empanadas. The relief of finally telling the truth.The empanadas were delicious. But the real meal was the truth. And now, when my daughters crawl into my lap in their pajamas on Christmas morning, I know I’ve given them something better than tradition: permission to always show up as themselves.And maybe that’s the permission you need too. To remember the girl you were before the questions and the expectations and the constant chorus of “when are you going to…?” To remember the dream you once had of Paris, or Bali, or Buenos Aires—not as a family trip, but as a declaration that your life was yours.Take the trip. Even if it’s just a weekend in a city you’ve never walked alone. Even if your family doesn’t understand. Even if it makes you “selfish” for a season. Because sometimes disappearing for a little while is the only way to come home to yourself.And one day, whether it’s your kids, your nieces, or just the people who look up to you—they’ll see you. And they’ll know the greatest gift you gave them wasn’t a wrapped box under a tree. It was proof that you never stopped choosing your own story.
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Joseph Tito
Travel
Elements Cottages: Where I Found My Fire (Literally)
Here’s the thing about deadlines: they don’t care. They don’t care that you’re tired, that the kids are feral, or that your brain is basically held together with coffee and wishful thinking. Deadlines are like toddlers—they want what they want, and they want it now.So when I met Kelly—the owner of Elements Cottages—in a hot yoga class (because apparently nearly cooking yourself alive counts as self-care), she takes one look at me, mid-downward-dog, clearly stressed out of my mind, and just goes: “Girl, you need to go up north.”And listen, Kelly isn’t just the owner. She’s the spirit of the place. Woman-owned, woman-led, and built out of her vision to give people—especially those who might never think Muskoka was for them—a chance to disconnect from the noise and reconnect with themselves through nature. She’s a doll, the kind of woman you meet once and instantly want in your circle.So I went. And here’s what happened.By day, I did the thing. Laptop out, papers everywhere, tapping away at the big dining table with the forest literally wrapping around me through floor-to-ceiling windows. I hit my deadline, and for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel like I’d sacrificed my soul to do it.By night? Different story. That firepit. My God. I’d step outside, sink into one of those Adirondack chairs, and just let myself burn with it. Staring into those flames, I remembered what stillness felt like. No phone. No scrolling. Just me and the fire, and a peace I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. I lost myself out there more than once, and it was the kind of losing where you actually find yourself again.And let me tell you—the girls would’ve loved it. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a chef’s kitchen that practically begs for wine-fueled grazing boards, a hot tub, and a sauna? This place is built for a girls’ weekend. Loud laughter, late-night confessions, snacks everywhere—Elements is the backdrop for all of it.But it’s also perfect if you’re running on fumes and need a solo reset. The hiking trails, the calm of the water just steps away, the way the cottage itself almost dares you to stop performing and just be—it all works like medicine. And the best part? It’s luxury without the pressure to “be luxury.” You can wear pajamas until 2 p.m. and no one cares. That’s my kind of cottage.Here’s the truth: Elements isn’t about escaping life—it’s about remembering yourself inside it. Kelly designed it that way. She wants everyone, from first-time cottage-goers to seasoned Muskoka people, to have that exposure, that permission to breathe. And she nailed it.I left with my work done, but more importantly, I left with something I didn’t know I needed: stillness. And yes, I’m already planning to go back—this time with the girls, the wine, and way less guilt.Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is exactly what Kelly told me after yoga: disconnect from the everyday, and reconnect with yourself.And trust me—there’s no better place to do it than by that fire at Elements Cottages.
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Angela Marotta
Travel
Breakfast in Florence, Lunch in Rome
When I was young and living in Rome, my friends and I didn’t plan much. We declared it a day for breakfast in Florence and set off in the middle of the night because it was exciting. Someone brought a map. Someone ignored the map. Someone else promised to navigate but sang the same song on repeat instead. We took a wrong exit, argued in good fun about who missed the sign, and laughed so hard the windows fogged. We rolled into Florence as the city was waking up. Our tired faces crowded the bar for a warm cappuccino and cornetto, and we promised to be back in Rome for lunch - as if time were waiting on us.When you are young, plans are merely suggestions. When you are with your people, any ordinary Tuesday feels special no matter where you are. We didn’t need a reason. We were the reason. A song, a joke, a look across the table, and the day became an event.I have returned to Rome, the city that took me in so many years ago. It’s like a familiar song that floods my thoughts with memories. I step onto a street that knows my footsteps better than I know my plans, and there it is again: the soft clatter of cups behind a bar, a conversation about everything and nothing among locals having coffee al banco. A scooter purrs awake, and the lingering scent of warm brioche follows. I am back in a place that is no longer my home, though it still feels like one. The address changed. The belonging did not.We gather without ceremony. Someone texts two words that open a door: “Same place?” By late evening there’s a table, and chairs seem to remember us. And there is that feeling travel tries to teach but youth often learns by accident. You are not alone in the world. Your life is braided with other lives. You sit down, and the braid is visible again.Back then, travel was a verb with one action. Go. The rest wrote itself. We sat on cathedral steps with nothing urgent to say. We learned that the best stories begin with, “I was with my friends…” We learned that the small decisions you make on an ordinary morning can become a north star that follows you for years.Those silly, fast, half planned trips left a mark I still carry. Not a postcard kind of mark. A quiet one. The kind you feel when you recognize a street and a scene from a movie plays back in your mind. The kind that feeds your soul when your flight lands and a friend calls your name across the crowd. The kind you carry into boardrooms and quiet kitchens where you realize that what you miss is not the view but the people the view gathered around you.Coming back to Rome to stay for a while feels different than a quick visit with a return ticket. Now, older and hopefully a little wiser, I notice different things. The same square holds new rhythms and new stories being made. I read the city the way I read a favorite book after living more life. Lines I skimmed in my twenties now glow. The buildings did not move. I did. I bring a longer memory to the same streets, and the streets return something finer. It is not nostalgia. It is continuity.We make a night of it, and by night I mean the cozy kind that begins early because some of us get up with children and some of us get up with the sun. The conversation doesn’t need to be important to be true. Friends arrive in layers. Someone tells a story we have heard before, and we laugh in the same place as last time. Someone shares a small victory, and we celebrate as if it were our own. Someone else offers a quiet update, and the room leans in the way rooms do when love has a seat.In youth, we believed in the miracle of sudden departures. Now I believe in the miracle of arrivals. After years away, to step back into a city and find that I still fit - that I can walk into a café and be folded back into a conversation as if I had only stood up to stretch is a form of grace. A city can be a person in that way. You leave. You return. This is how home feels, even when you have been gone a while.Of course, today there are reasons not to go. We clear schedules for emergencies. We cross oceans for closure. We show up for loss. But when it is about joy, when it is about us - when it is simply about being together again - we hesitate. We say later. We say money. We say work. We say next season. I have done it too. The calendar fills with obligations, and we forget that presence is not only for grief. It is also for life. Then years pass, and we forget the taste of the first coffee in a city we love. We forget how a glance can carry the unspoken.What I remember from those early days is not my bank balance. I remember a sunrise through a windshield, a chorus on repeat and the fogged windows. I remember joy in Florence with a warm pastry in my hands, then racing back to Rome just to sit with the same friends for lunch and pretend we had not crossed a region in between. Youth is a shorthand for the part of us that still says yes before the mind drafts a list of objections.Now, when I step into these streets in the fall and winter season, I practice the same word. Yes. Yes to a slow walk to watch the city put on its coat. Yes to calling people by the names that belong to our history. Yes to a long table and the day stretching out like a cat in the sun, and someone asking me to stay a little longer. Yes to laughter that lands in the same spot it always did. Yes to the new stories that begin with “I’m glad you came.”Coming full circle is not a neat loop. It is a spiral that widens with every return. Each visit holds the echo of the last and the promise of the next. A place that is not your home can hold your history like a careful librarian, ready to hand it back when you walk in. Rome, the city that took me in years before still lives in me and welcomes who I am becoming. It’s not about reclaiming my youth. I do not need to recapture the past. I only need to meet it, thank it, and bring it forward.So here is my simple advice, if advice is even the word. Take the trip. If you can go, go. Call the person. Set the table. Book the early train because the idea is a little crazy and promise yourself a foolish breakfast somewhere that is still on your map. Then come back for lunch with the people who remember you from before and let them meet who you’ve become. The paycheck will matter less in memory than the moment you showed up. The obligation you kept to yourself to live a life that gathers people will matter more.Community is not a location. It is a circle of chairs that keeps finding room for you. May there be a door that opens to your name, a city that nods in recognition, and a seat at a table where someone is already pouring you a glass of wine. May you be welcomed as the same person and a different one, and may you leave carrying forward what you found the first time you went.
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Angela Marotta
Travel
Il Dolce Far Niente: A Lost Art
My childhood summers were spent with my grandparents in a small Italian town where time stood still. Every afternoon after lunch, my grandfather would grab his wooden chair, place it under an olive tree, and sit, becoming one with the stillness of the hot summer landscape and the clicking chorus of cicadas.I waited for him to do something. He just sat there, looking at nothing in particular. "Nonno, ma che fai?" I finally asked. Granddad, what are you doing? He turned to me and answered, "Sitting."At the time I figured he didn't understand the question. I didn't understand what he was doing. Not then. Not for years.In 2019, my eight-year-old daughter and I discovered a café in Saint-Germain near the apartment we were staying at. We would go early in the morning for breakfast before starting our day in La Ville Lumière. Annalise, our server, found my daughter's obsession with pain au chocolat amusing and by day 3 she already had one warm and waiting as we walked through the door. We sat by the window and watched the city wake up—the flower vendor arranging roses, the man who always stopped to let his dog drink from the water bowl outside. On our last morning, Annalise hugged us both, pressed a parting pain au chocolat into my little girl's hands, and said she hoped to see us again soon. My daughter unexpectedly threw her arms around the young server, hugging her as if she were leaving someone she had known her whole life rather than just a week.This wasn't how I'd planned our Paris trip. It became something better.The New Luxury: TimeThere's a word for what my grandfather did under his tree: il dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. In our age of FOMO travel, we collect destinations like stamps in a passport-sized achievement book. Paris: check. Istanbul: check. Machu Picchu: check. We have every day planned out, itineraries mapped out, cooking classes scheduled, reservations booked months in advance to all those restaurants that keep popping up on our Instagram feed—oh, and don't forget the three different beaches you absolutely cannot miss according to every travel blogger who's ever existed. We are very efficient at seeing places. Terrible at actually being in them. You're exhausted. In paradise.By the time you collapse into your airplane seat for the flight home, you need a vacation from your vacation. You spend the first three days back recuperating from what was supposed to restore you, scrolling through hundreds of photos to pick the ones that will be perfect for that reel you are going to post to let everyone see how good a time you had. But did you actually enjoy any of those meticulously planned experiences?Then it's back to the routine—work, obligations, the mechanical rhythm of daily life, and all the while you plan your next escape from where you just escaped from.But something is shifting. Travellers are beginning to reject the crammed must-see bucket list in favor of what some now call the joy of missing out travel—though my grandfather would have simply called it living.It's harder than it sounds. We're programmed for productivity, even in paradise. That voice in your head listing all the things you should be seeing, doing, experiencing. The guilt of flying halfway around the world to sit in a café you could find in your own city.But here's what I've learned: You can spend a week in Paris and see everything while experiencing nothing. Or you can know one café, one park, one street so well that a piece of your heart stays there.The New Luxury: TimeWhen I work with clients planning trips, I try to build in what I call "free time." Entire afternoons with nothing scheduled. No reservations, just go out and discover or literally do nothing. Without fail, these spontaneous moments become their most vivid and treasured memories: the restaurant they stumbled upon, the conversation with locals at a neighborhood bar, the afternoon walking through cobblestone streets without a map.Even the travel world is catching on. Hotels are reimagining luxury as time rather than activities—slow cruises where the journey matters more than checking off ports, train routes through Tuscany where you watch landscapes change gradually with wine in hand, spa retreats where "sleep programs" make doing nothing the entire point. You're not observing local life through a bus window; you're temporarily invited to be part of a community.This pushes against everything we normally do when we travel. It asks us to be present in a new place rather than productive in it. The real test of travel isn't how many sights you've seen, but whether the place changed how you see. My grandfather, sitting under his olive tree every afternoon, understood something we've forgotten in our rush to experience everything: Presence is the ultimate luxury, whether you're in Paris or your own backyard.Creating your own Dolce Far NienteDon't get me wrong. This isn't about throwing your schedule out the window and wandering aimlessly. It's about creating space for the sweetness of life even while travelling. It's about stopping to enjoy those little moments where you lean into your chair, coffee cupped between your hands, and sit with the moment.Instead of accumulating experiences like trading cards, let's lean into what feels good, not what looks good on Instagram. Spend a week in Tuscany picking olives and having dinner with a family at the end of the day on a farm. Choose a neighborhood and learn its rhythms. Have your morning coffee at the same café. These small routines create connection and transform you from tourist to temporary resident. Walk instead of taking taxis. The in-between moments often hold the most magic.We may not always have the luxury of long stays at our destination, but even then, we can find a pocket of presence. One unhurried morning, or a meal without checking the time.But here's the real question: What happens when we return home? As we settle into fall routines—school drop-offs, work deadlines, soccer practice, parent-teacher conferences. Can we maintain this practice of presence?The answer lies not in overhauling our schedules but in finding our own versions of my grandfather's tree. It's finding those pockets of stillness. Maybe it's five minutes with your morning coffee standing outside to enjoy the silent stillness of a city stillasleep before checking emails. Perhaps it's sitting in your car for a moment before heading into the office, or simply standing at your kitchen window, watching the leaves change colour.Since Paris, my daughter now asks for "pain au chocolat mornings" at home—our code for unhurried weekend breakfasts.I never got a chance to tell my grandfather I finally understood what he was doing under that tree. But sometimes, when I manage to sit still long enough to hear my own breathing, to notice the light through the window, to feel the weight of the mug in my hands—I can almost see him there. Still sitting. Still teaching me, decades later, that the sweetness isn't in doing nothing.It's in being present enough to taste it.il dolce fare niente.Angela Marotta, CEO and founder of Marotta Travel, is a travel designer with three decades of experience in the travel industry, having spent most of her career living and working in Italy and Mexico. Her mission today is to provide uniquely tailored travel experiences with purpose.
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Joseph Tito
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Winning Her Way: How Melissa Grelo Redefines Success
THE NOTE WAITING IN HER HOTEL ROOMMelissa Grelo was on the brink of one of the boldest moves of her career - a wellness retreat built on her Aging Powerfully platform, the passion project she’s nurtured alongside running a podcast, parenting an 11-year-old, and hosting The Social, Canada’s most-watched daytime talk show. Her daughter, Marquesa, had tucked a note into her bag with strict instructions: Don’t open until you get there.Alone in her hotel room, minutes before leading a room full of women who’d come to learn from her and the group of experts she had curated, Melissa finally opened it. On the first page, in her daughter’s unmistakably confident handwriting:I am so proud of you.“It was a very long letter,” Melissa laughs now. “She’s a very prolific writer. Her vocabulary is fabulous.”But the message was simple: Go. Do this. I’m good. I’m cheering for you.This is what it looks like when a woman builds a life that supports her joy - and raises a daughter who sees and celebrates it.THE GAME IS RIGGED. SHE PLAYS IT ANYWAY.Let’s get something straight: Melissa Grelo hasn’t come undone. She’s building a life, a career, and a rhythm that reflect her strengths, not society’s expectations. What she has done is thrive in an industry where women, especially those on camera, still face extra layers of scrutiny: age, appearance, composure, perfection. Viewers often expect media personalities to be flawless, polished, and ever-present, even when their lives are evolving behind the scenes.And still, Melissa moves forward with clarity and confidence.When The Social finally premiered, it wasn’t just another show for her. It was something she had dreamed up, pitched, and championed for years. So even though she was only 11 weeks postpartum, she chose to be there - excited, grateful, and fully aware of the significance of stepping into a project she had helped bring to life.“I went back to work really fast after I had her,” she says calmly. Not apologizing. Not justifying. Simply acknowledging that the moment mattered to her. She wanted to show up for something she had helped build.Men call this dedication. Women are often told it’s “balance.” But the truth is simpler: Melissa followed her ambition and trusted herself.WHEN HER BODY HIT PAUSE, SHE HIT RESETA year and a half after Marquesa was born, Melissa was hosting Your Morning and The Social. Early mornings, long days, big interviews, and two live shows that demanded focus and energy. Her career was expanding quickly, and she was embracing every opportunity that came with it. Mid-flight to Calgary, her body signaled it was time to calibrate - dizziness, racing heart, the kind of symptoms that demand attention. Doctors checked her vitals: all perfect.The lesson wasn’t “slow down,” it was “support yourself.”She did exactly that. Therapy. A later call time. And a more intentional approach to her already full life.“I’m very bad at resting,” she admits with a smile. “I’ve always been foot-to-the-floor.”But instead of pushing harder, she adjusted smarter. She didn’t crumble; she evolved.THE MATH OF MODERN PARENTHOODMelissa had Marquesa at 36, and like many parents who have children later in life, she occasionally does the quiet calculations – how old she’ll be at major milestones, how life stages might line up. “Always, always,” she says. “Everybody does the math.”But here's what the math doesn't consider: wisdom. Experience. A fully formed self."What we feel like we might be behind in or losing in age, we've gained in wisdom," she says. "We're bringing a whole different self to parenting."Her daughter gets the version of Melissa who knows who she is. Who lived a full life first. Who built a career and collected stories and mistakes and victories before motherhood.This Melissa doesn't crumble when the culture whispers that she's "aging out." She launches a podcast called Aging Powerfully and fills a retreat with women who want what she's modeling: strength without shame."I'm going to be the youngest version of my age at every step of the way."CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.WINNING LOOKS DIFFERENT THAN THEY TOLD USOur interview took place on Melissa’s train ride home, a quiet moment in her busy day. As the train pulls into the station, Melissa gathers her things. Ryan is on pickup duty. Tomorrow she’ll do it all again, the work she loves, the routines she cherishes, a life she’s built intentionally.Tonight, she’ll braid Marquesa’s hair. She’ll ask the questions that matter. She’ll settle into the couch as her real self.The version that is fully present.The version that embraces every part of her life with intention.The version showing her daughter what’s possible when you follow your own path.And someday, when another letter comes, it won’t say I miss you.It will say:I see you. And I’m proud.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Fire That Forged Her: The Unbreakable Power of Leslie Al-Jishi
I’ve known Leslie Al-Jishi long enough to say this with absolute certainty — she doesn’t just survive things. She transforms them.We met years ago in Bahrain, long before hashtags and hero narratives made resilience fashionable. Back then, the world was shifting under our feet. Women were finally being allowed to drive, and the Gulf was pulsing with a quiet revolution — change moving in whispers, not shouts.Leslie was already ahead of it. She wasn’t waiting for permission; she was building her own road.We built one of the first performing arts schools in Bahrain together — something that sounds simple now, but at the time felt radical. It wasn’t just about music or movement. It was about freedom. About giving young people — especially girls — a place to be seen, to move, to speak without fear.Leslie understood that before anyone else. While most people saw risk, she saw necessity. She was — and still is — the kind of woman who walks straight into resistance and says, “Fine. Watch me.”The Weight of LegacyLeslie comes from a family whose name carries weight. The Al-Jishi legacy runs through hospitals, medical fields, generations of service and innovation. But don’t mistake inheritance for ease.Leslie didn’t sit back and coast on family prestige. She expanded it. Reimagined it. Made it hers. In a landscape that still measures women by how quietly they move, she made sure her footsteps echoed.Her power isn’t loud — it’s disciplined. It’s the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself because it’s already in motion. The kind that sits at a boardroom table and changes the entire temperature of the room with one sentence.When the World StoppedAnd then — the unthinkable.Her son, Baddar, passed away.Even now, writing that sentence feels impossible. Because as a father, I can’t even begin to comprehend it. I don’t want to.I was there for her then — at least I thought I was. I showed up, I tried to comfort, I tried to hold space. But I realize now, I didn’t truly understand. Not until I became a parent myself.Back then, I saw the grief from the outside — the strength, the composure, the way she held everything together when her entire world was breaking.Now, I understand that you don’t carry that kind of pain — it becomes part of you. It never leaves. It shapes every breath, every choice, every silence.Leslie didn’t “move on.” She learned to move with it.And that’s where her power comes from — not from grace or endurance, but from the sheer will to keep showing up in a world that took everything from her and still demanded more.There’s strength you perform for others — and then there’s the kind that lives in your bones. Leslie’s is the latter.The RebirthOut of that darkness, she rebuilt. Not just herself, but the lives and futures around her.Today, Leslie Al-Jishi is a woman who can walk into any room — in Riyadh, in London, in Marbella — and command it without saying a word. There’s something magnetic about her energy: calm, assured, unflinching.She’s evolved from a regional powerhouse into a global force — a connector, a creator, a quiet architect of progress.You don’t see her name splashed across headlines or trending hashtags — because she’s too busy doing the work. The kind of work that outlives applause.What Power Really Looks LikeWhen people talk about “strong women,” they often picture loudness — defiance, bravado, Instagram quotes in gold cursive. Leslie’s power doesn’t look like that. It’s quieter. More dangerous. It’s the kind that doesn’t ask to be seen — but once you do see it, you can’t look away.She is, quite simply, a woman who will stop at nothing for what she believes in. Whether it’s culture, art, education, healthcare, or justice — she doesn’t just join the cause; she becomes the pulse of it.And through it all, she remains deeply human. Warm. Grounded. The kind of woman who will hold your hand in silence because she knows words aren’t enough.Leslie Al-Jishi doesn’t live in the past, but she carries it with her — like a compass. Every choice she makes honors the boy she lost, the man she’s raising (yes, Yousif — Amm Joseph is talking about you!), the women who came before her, and the countless ones who’ll come after.She is proof that grief can be both an anchor and a set of wings.I’ve seen powerful people fall apart over far less. But Leslie — she rose, again and again, until the ashes became her armor.And maybe that’s the secret: she never set out to inspire anyone. She just refused to stop moving.From Saudi roots to Bahraini milestones to Marbella’s sun-soaked coastlines, Leslie Al-Jishi remains what she’s always been — unstoppable, unshakable, and utterly unforgettable.This is Leslie Al-Jishi: the fire that forged itself.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
THE DIVORCE THAT BROKE THE INTERNET
How Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum Turned Her Broken Marriage Into a Masterclass in Modern PowerThe Instagram post lasted exactly 47 minutes before going viral worldwide."Dear Husband," Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum typed on July 16, 2024, "As you are occupied with other companions, I hereby declare our divorce. I divorce you, I divorce you, and I divorce you. Take care. Your ex-wife."In less than 50 words, the daughter of Dubai's ruler hadn't just ended her marriage—she'd detonated a centuries-old power dynamic, invoked Islamic law through Instagram, and given roughly 3 billion women worldwide a moment of vicarious satisfaction. The post has since been deleted, but screenshots live forever, especially when they're saved by millions.Here's what most Western media missed: This wasn't just a spurned wife going rogue on social media. This was a calculated power move by someone who understands exactly how modern influence works.The SetupLet's be clear about who we're discussing. Mahra bint Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum isn't your average royal. Half-Greek, half-Emirati, educated between Dubai and London, she's been walking the tightrope between tradition and modernity since birth. At 30, she runs her own perfume line, commands 500K+ Instagram followers, and manages to be both a devoted mother and a social media force—all while navigating one of the world's most scrutinized royal families.Her (now ex) husband, Sheikh Mana bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is her father's advisor and technically her cousin. Their 2023 wedding was peak Dubai excess—the kind where nobody posts the budget but everyone knows it could fund a small nation's healthcare system.Less than a year later, it was over. Publicly. Brutally. Brilliantly.The Real StorySources in Dubai (who unsurprisingly prefer anonymity) paint a different picture than the "woman scorned" narrative. Mahra had been building her exit strategy for months. The perfume line? Launched weeks before the divorce announcement. The name of her first fragrance? "Divorce." I'm not making this up."She knew exactly what she was doing," says a Dubai-based luxury brand consultant who's worked with several royal family members. "The triple talaq [saying 'I divorce you' three times] is traditionally a male prerogative in Islamic law. For a woman to use it, publicly, on Instagram? That's not emotional. That's revolutionary."The timing was surgical. Posted during peak Middle East social media hours, tagged strategically, worded to go viral. Within hours, she'd transformed from "another Gulf princess" into a global feminist icon—whether she intended to or not.The Business of Being BrokenHere's where it gets interesting. While Western influencers turn divorces into reality shows, Mahra turned hers into a luxury brand. Her perfume "Divorce" sold out in Dubai within 72 hours of launch. The follow-up fragrance? "Moving On." The third? "New Beginnings."This isn't just marketing—it's alchemy. She's taken the most private pain and transformed it into the most public power.The numbers are staggering:Perfume sales up 400% post-divorce announcementInstagram engagement rates that would make Kim Kardashian weepSpeaking requests from every major women's conference globallyA reported book deal worth seven figures"She's done what no royal has done before," explains a Middle Eastern social media analyst. "She's monetized authenticity in a culture that usually pays for silence."The Marbella ConnectionWhich brings us to why Mahra matters to Marbella, beyond the obvious fact that she probably owns property here (the Al Maktoums own property everywhere that matters).Marbella has always been where Middle Eastern royalty comes to be Western—to drink champagne, wear bikinis, and pretend the rules don't apply. But Mahra represents something different: she's bringing Eastern power moves to Western platforms, using Islamic law as a feminist tool, turning tradition into disruption.She's reportedly considering a Marbella boutique for her fragrance line. But more interesting are the whispers about a potential investment in a female-only members club here—a place where divorced women can network, not commiserate. "Think Soho House meets group therapy meets venture capital fund," says someone familiar with the plans.This makes sense. Marbella isn't just where you go to escape your divorce—it's where you go to plan your next act. The Costa del Sol has always been a place for reinvention, where new money can wash away old scandals. For someone like Mahra, it's not a hideaway—it's a laboratory.The Uncomfortable TruthLet's address what everyone's thinking: Is any of this real? Is the divorce final? Does Islamic law even recognize Instagram as a valid platform for religious declarations? Is this all just performance art with a luxury goods tie-in?The answer is: it doesn't matter.What matters is that a 30-year-old woman from one of the world's most patriarchal societies just showed every woman watching that power isn't given—it's taken. And sometimes, it's taken in public, with excellent lighting and a strategic hashtag.Her father, Sheikh Mohammed, hasn't publicly commented. But sources say he's "not entirely displeased" with his daughter's business acumen. After all, Dubai wasn't built on tradition—it was built on ambitious people who understood that controversy, properly managed, is just another word for marketing.What Happens NextThe Marbella boutique, if it happens, won't just sell perfume. Sources suggest it's part of a larger play—a lifestyle brand that speaks to women navigating what she calls "conscious uncoupling with unconscious wealth." Think Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop but with actual money and fewer jade eggs.But here's the real disruption: Mahra is building a business model for modern royal women. No more suffering in silence behind palace walls. No more choosing between tradition and independence. Instead, she's showing that you can honor your heritage while hashtagging your liberation."Every wealthy woman in an unhappy marriage is watching her," says a Marbella-based divorce attorney who's seen a spike in "Mahra-inspired" inquiries. "She's proved you can leave loudly and profit from the noise."The Last WordWhen I reached out to Mahra's team for comment, they sent back a single line: "The Sheikha's fragrances speak for themselves."And maybe that's the point. In a world where every celebrity divorce comes with competing PR narratives and leaked text messages, Mahra Al Maktoum did something radical: she controlled her own story, named her own price, and literally bottled the experience for $250 per ounce.The masculine way to handle divorce? Lawyers, NDAs, and financial settlements. The feminine way? Turn your pain into a product, your breakdown into a breakthrough, and your ex-husband into a marketing strategy.She's not coming to Marbella to hide. She's coming to expand.And honestly? The Costa del Sol could use more women who understand that sometimes the best revenge isn't living well—it's living publicly, profitably, and completely on your own terms.Welcome to Marbella, Sheikha. You're going to fit right in.Joseph Tito is the Editor-in-Chief of Between the Covers and writes the magazine’s unapologetically unhinged “Bitch Fest” advice column. He is currently researching the legal validity of Instagram divorces under Islamic law and accepting early applications for his upcoming divorce-themed fragrance line, tentatively titled “Irreconcilable Differences.”
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Joseph Tito
Bitch Fest
Bitch Fest: Marbella Edition
You write it. I bitch it. We heal (sort of).🪩 Welcome to Bitch FestWelcome to Bitch Fest — Marbella’s new emotional support group disguised as a column.Think of me as your slightly judgmental best friend who always tells you the truth, even when you didn’t ask for it.Here’s how this works: you write in with your chaos, your cringe, your “did that really just happen?” moments — and I respond with brutal honesty, affection, and just enough sarcasm to sting.This isn’t therapy. It’s survival with better lighting.Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that even under the Spanish sun, the mess still shows up — it just tans better here.💌 Letter 1: “Golden Mile Ghosted”Dear Bitch Fest,I met a man at Nobu. Gorgeous. Divorced. Smelled like Tom Ford and said he splits his time between Marbella and London.He sends voice notes that sound like poetry, but every time he’s “back in London,” I don’t hear from him for a week.He told me he’s not ready for labels, but he texts me every night at 11:11.Is this a sign from the universe or a sign I’m an idiot?— Manifesting but MadDear Manifesting,Oh honey. Oh no. Oh absolutely fucking not.“Splits his time between London and Marbella” is code for “has a wife in Kensington and a coke dealer in Puerto Banús.” This man isn’t mysterious — he’s married. Or worse, emotionally constipated with a frequent flyer fetish.Let me paint you a picture: right now, while you’re checking your phone for the fifteenth time today, analyzing that 11:11 timestamp like it’s the Da Vinci Code of dick, he’s in London having missionary sex with someone named Philippa who owns horses and says “darling” like it’s a tax deduction.You know what 11:11 really means? It means he’s consistent about exactly one thing: breadcrumbing you at bedtime. That’s not divine timing — that’s a man with a Google Calendar reminder that says “text the Marbella one.”I’ve been you. I dated a man whose career was “travel.” Cool—he toured the world disappointing gay men. I spent €400 on an outfit for a dinner he canceled by WhatsApp voice note while I was already sitting there.Delete him. Block him. Sage your phone. Burn some palo santo. Hell, burn his memory. Because baby, the only thing worse than a man who won’t commit is a woman who keeps waiting for him to.The universe isn’t testing you. It’s begging you to raise your standards above “texts back sometimes.”💌 Letter 2: “Puente Romano Parenting”Dear Bitch Fest,We came to Marbella for a “family reset.” The kids are sunburned, my husband’s emailing from the cabana, and I’m hiding in the bathroom Googling “can Aperol count as hydration?”The mom at the next table is doing yoga in a bikini and I haven’t meditated since 2014.Am I failing motherhood?— Namaste-ishDear Namaste-ish,First of all, yes — Aperol is hydrating if you believe hard enough. It’s called manifesting electrolytes.Now, let’s talk about bikini yoga mom. You think she’s enlightened? She’s not. She’s disassociating. That’s not inner peace — that’s Xanax and a prayer. I guarantee she went to her car afterward and screamed into a beach towel.Here’s the truth: every “family reset” in Marbella is just rich people discovering you can’t outrun dysfunction — it just gets a tan.Your husband’s not “working remotely,” he’s remotely present.Your kids aren’t feral, they’re just honest. They know this whole charade is bullshit, and they’re acting accordingly.I watched a woman at Trocadero Beach Club yesterday FaceTime her therapist while her kids destroyed €200 worth of calamari. She kept saying, “I’m practicing presence,” while her son practiced violence on his sister. We made eye contact. We both knew.Here’s your permission slip: you don’t need to meditate. You don’t need to journal. You don’t need to pretend that family time in paradise isn’t sometimes a gold-plated nightmare.You need that Aperol, a kids’ club that doesn’t ask questions, and the number of that yoga teacher who really just lets everyone cry for an hour.You’re not failing motherhood. You’re surviving it — with a better view. The only difference between a “good” mother and a “bad” one in Marbella is the SPF level and whether you packed iPads.Pour another drink. The vitamin D will balance it out. That’s science. Probably.💌 Letter 3: “Group Chat Hell”Dear Bitch Fest,Every Marbella WhatsApp group is like emotional CrossFit.If I don’t respond within five minutes, someone adds a passive-aggressive emoji.I left the group once and got added back ten minutes later.Is there any escape?— Emoji OverloadDear Emoji,Oh God, you joined one of those groups. Let me guess the cast:Sharon, who sells “healing crystals” (it’s meth energy, not amethyst).Jennifer, who posts daily affirmations at 6 a.m. (cocaine or insomnia — place your bets).Maria, who “doesn’t do drama” but screenshots everything.That one woman who replies to every message with a voice note longer than a podcast episode.The admin who has “Founder / CEO / Spiritual Warrior” in her bio but actually just day-drinks and does damage control.These groups are where optimism goes to die. It starts with “sisterhood” and ends with someone crying about a borrowed Hermès bag that came back “with energy.”I was in one. Once. Someone asked if anyone knew a good therapist. Sixteen women recommended sound baths, and one tried to sell her a course on “womb wisdom.” I said, “maybe try an actual licensed psychologist,” and got removed for “negative vibrations.”You can’t leave gracefully. You can’t leave at all. These groups are the Hotel California of estrogen — you can check out, but your notifications never leave.Here’s what you do:Mute for 365 days.Change your profile pic to something spiritual (sunset, yoga pose, glass of wine).Never respond, but occasionally heart-react to maintain proof of life.If anyone asks where you’ve been, say “soul-searching.” They’ll assume rehab or Ibiza — both are more respectable than admitting you just couldn’t take another sunrise quote from Eckhart Tolle.And start your own group: “Women Who Understand That Sometimes Life Is Just Shit And That’s Okay.”Entry requirements: at least one public crying incident, no vision boards, and wine counts as a food group.💋 The Ugly Beautiful TruthWe all came to Marbella for the same reason — we thought geographical distance from our problems meant emotional distance too.Surprise, bitch: your issues got upgraded to first class and followed you here.After three years, two divorces (not mine, but I was heavily involved), and approximately €47,000 in “healing experiences,” I’ve realized something:We’re all just damaged goods in better lighting.And that’s perfect.Because the women who admit they’re a mess in Marbella? Those are my people.The ones crying in their G-Wagons at school pickup.The ones who brought their therapist’s number to brunch “just in case.”The ones who moved here for a fresh start and ended up fresh out of fucks to give.You know why I started this column?Because I got tired of pretending my reinvention was working.It wasn’t. Still isn’t.I’m typing this in yesterday’s dress at 3 p.m., slightly buzzed, highly caffeinated, and my biggest achievement today was not texting my ex back.Tomorrow, I’ll probably do better. Or worse.Either way, I’ll do it in paradise — with excellent bone structure and questionable judgment.That’s the Marbella way.💌 Send Me Your DamageGot a confession? A crisis? Caught your husband texting someone saved as “Gym”?Don’t text your ex. Don’t drunk-DM. Send me your damage.📧 bitchfest@btcmag.comSubject line: “Help Me, Joseph,” “Am I The Asshole?” — or just keyboard smash. I’ll understand.The Joseph Tito Guarantee:I’ll be meaner than your inner critic but kinder than your mother-in-law.I’ll tell you the truth you need to hear, wrapped in the joke you need to laugh at.And I will never — ever — suggest meditation as a solution.Because babe, if deep breathing actually fixed things, we’d all be enlightened by now instead of entitled.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Woman Who Wouldn't Giggle: Elvira Caria's Four Decades of Refusing to Play Nice
After 40 years of fighting for her voice in broadcasting, Elvira Caria lost the only title that ever mattered to her: Matthew's momThere's a street named after Elvira Caria in Vaughan. She didn't pay for it, she'll tell you right away. Awards line her walls—forty years' worth of recognition for lifting up her community, for being the voice that shows up at every damn event with her phone and her genuine give-a-shit attitude.But when I meet her at The Roost Café on a grey autumn morning, she says the work that matters most is the stuff nobody sees."My real satisfactory work?" She pauses, weighing whether to trust me with this. "I help young girls escape human trafficking. You can't put that on social media."This is Elvira Caria: the woman who refused to be radio's giggling fool, who chose late-night shifts over morning show glory so she could be home when her son's school bus arrived, who now sits across from me one year after burying that same son at 25."I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the community," she says. And she means it literally.The Day She Found Her Voice by Refusing to Use ItPicture this: a young Elvira in a radio control room, told by a well-known male broadcaster that her job was to giggle. To be the pretty voice that makes him sound better."I don't do giggling fool," she says now, decades later, the Southern Italian fire still in her voice.She stopped showing up to giggle on cue. Got fired on a Friday. Instead of folding, she handed her termination papers back: "If you can find a better reason to fire me on Monday, I'll accept it. If not, I'm coming back."Monday passed. So did Tuesday. By Friday she expected another dismissal—everyone fires on Fridays. But a month later the man who told her to giggle was gone. Elvira stayed for six more years."I found my value voice," she says. "I wasn't going to bend for someone else's value."The Choice That Looked Like SacrificeAt the height of her career, being groomed for a morning show at one of Canada's top stations, Elvira walked away."Nobody quits Rock Radio," her boss said."Well, I just did."She took the shifts nobody wanted—weekends, evenings, 3 a.m. hits at Yonge and Dundas. People called it sacrifice. She calls it choice."While others were sleeping, I was talking to the people we now call homeless. Nobody wakes up saying, I want to be on the streets when I grow up. Nobody."The choice meant she was home when Matthew got off the school bus. It meant knowing his friends, his teachers, his world. For 25 years, it meant being Matthew's mom first, Elvira Caria second.The Irony That Breaks YouHere's the part that will gut you: she spent decades insisting she was more than just Matthew's mom. She was a broadcaster, a journalist, a voice for the voiceless. She built a career on authenticity when authenticity could get you fired.And then, in 2024, Matthew was gone— twenty-five years old and on the edge of everything. Suddenly all Elvira wanted was the one title that had been stripped away."Matthew never saw me as a radio announcer," she says, voice steady, eyes somewhere else. "He saw me as his mom. And that's all he cared about."The Part Where She Stops Pretending Everything's FineLet's talk about not getting out of bed. About hygiene being optional when grief is bone-deep.Her sister-in-law was the one who finally broke through: "They need you. My boys need you! You're more than their Zia." So Elvira took small steps. A shower became a victory. Coloring her hair, an achievement. Looking in the mirror and trying to recognize whoever stared back."I'm mad at God," she admits. "People say everything happens for a reason. What's the fucking reason? Why take away a kid who never did anything wrong, who was just starting his life?"The Community That Saved Her When Awards Couldn'tTen people can tell Elvira she's wonderful. One critic cuts deeper at 3 a.m. That's human.She'll admit some awards now feel hollow—accolades in a season of loss. The recognition doesn't heal the absence.But the community? They showed up in ways that mattered. The woman from her coffee shop who just sat with her, no words needed. The neighbor who mowed her lawn without asking, week after week, because grief means grass keeps growing when you can't. The radio colleague who took her shifts without question when she couldn't form words, let alone broadcast them. The mothers from Matthew's old baseball team who still text her his jersey number on game days. Or the Baseball league who named an umpire award after him."Someone left groceries at my door every Tuesday for three months," she tells me. "Never found out who. Just bags of real food—not casseroles, not sympathy lasagna—but the exact brands I buy. Someone paid attention to what was in my cart before. That's community."The vigils, the legacy fund in Matthew's name, the quiet notes slipped under her door—that's what kept her standing."The real work happens in shadows," she says. "Helping a girl escape trafficking. Watching her graduate two years later. That's when I think—okay, maybe I've done enough to meet my maker."The Wisdom of Not Giving a FuckAfter decades of answering every critic, she's learned the most radical act: indifference."You don't have to react to everything," she says. "Not everything requires an explanation."She still hates small talk, still loves a stage. The influencer economy baffles her. "People think having a phone makes them reporters. Broadcasting is an accreditation—you're trained how to interview, how to fact-check, how to smell bullshit."Who She Is NowA year later, she's still figuring it out. Still showing up at community events with her phone and her give-a-shit intact. Still ironing her underwear (yes, really) because some control is better than none.The street sign with her name stands in Vaughan, but she lives in the in-between—between public recognition and private purpose, between the veteran broadcaster and the grieving mother."The evil grows faster than good," she says. "We're always catching up."So she keeps going. Not because grief eases—it doesn't. Not because she's found a new purpose—she hasn't. But because stopping isn't her style.She refused to giggle back then. She refuses to perform now. And maybe that's the lesson: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is keep showing up, even when you don't know why you're still here. Especially then.Elvira Caria continues to support multiple charities across the GTA while maintaining her broadcasting career. She's still mad at God, still helping girls escape trafficking, still learning who she is now. She does not need your sympathy. She might need you to know that grief has no timeline, authenticity isn't content, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to play along.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Dentist Is Between My Legs: Bif Naked on Heart Surgery, Picking Felons, and Why She's Just Getting Started at 54
The punk icon who found euphoria on an operating table talks death doulas, divorce gratitude, and why her failing marriage hurt more than cancerBy Joseph Tito | Between the Covers | November 2025Bif Naked is cutting up her dog's food with her hands when I ask how it feels to be a legend.She looks at me like I've asked her to explain quantum physics in Swahili. "I'm a dog mom," she says, and goes back to mincing. Her fingers work methodically, tearing dog food into smaller and smaller pieces. The woman who once spit on audiences from punk stages now performs this daily ritual of care with the focus of a surgeon.This is going to be that kind of conversation—where every expectation gets shredded like dog food.The Operating Table High"So I was wide awake," Bif says, settling into her Toronto condo couch, miniskirt riding up as she crosses her legs. She's talking about her heart surgery like most people describe a spa day. "They thread a little camera through your leg all the way to your heart, and they can see what they're doing on the screen."She leans forward, eyes bright with the memory. "The surgeon is wearing a pineapple hat—like, the surgical hat had cartoon pineapples on it. And they're listening to William Shatner singing. Have you ever heard him sing? Who knew this album existed?"This is a woman describing having a hole in her heart closed with what she calls "a little umbrella device," conscious the entire time, finding it all hilarious and profound in equal measure. Her voice gets almost reverent: "I thought, this is the coolest shit ever. How is it possible that in this lifetime, I can listen to these people talking about their day jobs, which is fixing my stupid heart?"Then comes the moment that gives this article its title. They need to inject Novocaine into her leg to make the incision. You know that heavy, aching feeling from the dentist?"I said, 'Oh! It feels like the dentist is between my legs.'"She covers her face, laughing and mortified simultaneously. "The nurses started howling. This patient is on the table, making what they think is dirty talk. But I just meant—" she gestures helplessly "—the Novocaine!"Her whole body shakes with laughter now. "Of course that's what I said. How fucking funny is that?"God's Rejection and Other Love Stories"God is not going to choose me for whatever reason," she says, the laughter suddenly gone. "I'm going to stay here on earth and have to deal with it. Because I'm not learning my lessons yet."The shift in energy is palpable. She's talking about her pattern now—the violent men, the criminal boyfriends, the marriages to liars. "If there's a wrong guy, send him my way. If he is a criminal, if he's a violent felon, send him my way. I'm going to fall in love with that idiot every time."She delivers this like a weather report, no self-pity, just fact. When I ask why she got divorced, she doesn't hesitate: "Because I married liars." Then, catching herself: "But I have to look at what my fault was."She discovered what healthy relationships actually look like at 54. Fifty-four. After two failed marriages, cancer, and enough medical trauma to kill most people twice. "I had no idea relationships were supposed to be healthy," she says, and the wonderment in her voice is genuine. "I think that I've always been chasing true love. I'll never give up on love, ever."The contradiction sits there between us: the woman who picks monsters still believes in fairy tales."My emotional crisis of my failing marriage trumped my cancer experience."She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it. The dissolution of her marriage during treatment hurt more than the actual cancer. Her hands, which had been still, start moving again—straightening pillows, adjusting her jewelry."Which was good," she adds quickly, "because it forced me to throw myself into volunteering."The man who married a rock star got a cancer patient instead, couldn't handle the plot twist. Now she trains as a death doula, works in palliative care. "If I was told tomorrow that I could not be a performer anymore," she says, her voice steady, "I think I would go into hospital administration."The Stage She Was Always SeekingBefore Bif Naked existed, there was a theatre kid at the University of Winnipeg who'd taken ballet for 13 years. She demonstrates a position, her leg extending with muscle memory from decades ago. "I wanted to be an actress and a ballet star."Then a drummer named Brett needed a singer. Suddenly she had a vehicle for all her poetry, all her rage about El Salvador and Indigenous treatment and misogyny. Whether it was ballet slippers or combat boots, she was always searching for a stage—just took her a while to find the right one."I got to stand up there. I got to spit on the audience. I got to say, fuck you, you can't objectify me." Her voice rises with the memory, that old fire flickering. "I didn't even have to sing very well. And believe me, I could not. I sounded like a dying cat."She pauses, grins. "And I don't mean the band Garbage."They opened for DOA. NoMeansNo. Bad Religion. She dropped out of university, and here's the kicker—"I'm still waiting to go back to school," she laughs, thirty-something years later, like she might actually do it.The same rage that fueled her screaming about El Salvador now targets Doug Ford's Ontario. "I couldn't figure out why I moved here," she says. "Then Ford got elected and I thought, 'Oh. I'm here to use my big mouth.'"The Children She'll Never Have (Or Will She?)When she cuts up that dog food with such maternal precision, I have to ask about kids. Her whole body language shifts—shoulders dropping, a softness creeping in."My ovaries were taken out at 36. So breast cancer didn't just cut up my tit." She says this with the same directness she uses for everything else, but her hand unconsciously moves to her stomach. "I've been in menopause since I was 36 years of age."People ask about adoption—she is, after all, adopted herself. The sarcasm returns, protective: "Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Let me turn around as a divorcee who's working nonstop as a self-employed artist in Canada and get right on the adoption train."But then, unexpectedly: "Now in my mid-50s? Yeah, I suppose I am ready."The possibility hangs there. Not this year. But the door isn't closed.Tina Turner's Miniskirt Ministry"I look to women like Tina Turner," she says, smoothing her miniskirt with deliberate intention. "Tina Turner didn't start playing stadiums till she was in her 50s."At 54, she genuinely believes she's just getting started. The documentary premiering across Canada this month (November 12 in Toronto, November 4 in Vancouver). The album finally released after she shelved it during the George Floyd protests because "the world didn't need a fucking Bif Naked record" during that summer of unrest."The sky is the limit," she says, and means it.When I ask who she's fighting for now, what her voice stands for at 54, she barely breathes before answering."When I was singing 'Tell On You' on my first record, I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says, her voice dropping to something harder, older. "I was the only girl with a microphone."The room goes quiet. Even the dog stops moving.She calls herself "a square" now—no cocaine, no partying. "I can be thoughtful and intelligent. I can try very hard to be a voice for the voiceless."But square doesn't mean silent. She's angrier about politics than ever, advocating for animals, healthcare inequality, LGBTQ+ rights rollbacks."Unfortunately," she says with a grin that's pure punk rock, "I'm still the one holding the mic."What's Next Is What She WantsThey're making a feature film about her life. The documentary's touring. When I ask what's next, she almost defaults to "that's a Peter question"—her manager's domain—then catches herself, takes ownership."We're working on the feature film based on the book."But really, what's next is whatever the fuck she wants. She's earned that.I ask what she'd tell a young girl starting out in music today. She thinks, really thinks, her face cycling through decades of memory."Never take it personally. Never take anything personally, no matter what."Then she says something that makes me stop writing: "There's room for everybody."This from a woman who had to claw for every inch of space. Who quit drinking partly to avoid being "misinterpreted" by men who'd use any excuse to discredit her. Who's been assaulted, dismissed, divorced, nearly killed."Anybody can make music on their computer, anybody can learn piano on YouTube, anybody can upload a song and send it to their nona," she continues, and she means it. "That's actually a gift."As I'm leaving, she's back to cutting up dog food, this ritualistic care that anchors her. I think about what she said about God not choosing her yet, about having to stay here and deal with it.But watching her hands work—the same hands that punched stage divers, that held microphones during cancer treatment, that reached for violent men who couldn't love her back—I realize something.She keeps saying she hasn't learned her lessons. But maybe she has. Maybe the lesson is you can marry liars and still believe in love. You can lose your ovaries at 36 and mother the whole world anyway. You can tell your surgical team the dentist is between your legs and still become a legend.She looks up from the dog bowl, catches me staring."I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says again, quieter this time but somehow louder. "I was the only girl with a microphone."Bif Naked's documentary tours Canada this month. Her album "Champion" is available now. She still wears miniskirts and heels. She's just getting started.
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