Some cities have a way of demanding a second chance. And that was exactly the case with Montreal. My first trip was less city exploration and more an extended exercise in retail recovery, lost luggage will do that to you, which meant the city I’d heard so much about remained largely unvisited.
As a self-proclaimed Type A traveler, I’m the one with an icon-coded Google map, a meticulously organized itinerary, and at least three backup restaurants for every meal. So, spending an agenda-free afternoon in Paris felt like I was rebelling against my natural wiring. It was equal parts liberating and mildly terrifying—with a definite emphasis on terrifying.
There are a few weeks every summer when Nashville quietly becomes a better city, and it has nothing to do with a buzzy new restaurant or another honky-tonk opening on Lower Broadway. It's tomato season, that fleeting stretch when heirlooms arrive at farmers markets in shades of red, yellow, green, and purple, still warm from the field and tasting exactly as summer should.
The weather in Nashville is simply dreadful. Bone-chilling winds are whipping around corners and sporadic bursts of rain always seem to appear at the most inopportune time. In order to escape this nonsense, I have spent most of the day dreaming about my time in Jardin Majorelle.
There are a few weeks every summer when Nashville quietly becomes a better city, and it has nothing to do with a buzzy new restaurant or another honky-tonk opening on Lower Broadway. It's tomato season, that fleeting stretch when heirlooms arrive at farmers markets in shades of red, yellow, green, and purple, still warm from the field and tasting exactly as summer should.