There’s a version of arriving in Rome that goes like this: you step off the plane, drop your bags at the hotel, and within an hour, you’re at a corner table with a carafe of house red and a plate of cacio e pepe, genuinely present and taking it all in. The light is golden. You are exactly where you want to be.
Then there’s the other version — the real version, for most travelers. You peel yourself out of a middle seat after nine hours of half-sleep, shuffle through baggage claim feeling like something that washed ashore, collapse into your hotel bed after throwing your wrinkled clothing on the floor, and wake up at midnight with no idea what continent you’re on. If you’re anything like me, you’ll spend the next two days in a fog, waking up at 3 AM and falling asleep standing up at 4 PM – not to mention dealing with headaches, back pain, and a sore neck. I’ve missed a tour of Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia, hit a metaphorical wall on a ski slope in Japan, and missed cocktails in the sun in Switzerland because I’ve been almost crying from exhaustion. And the older I get (elder millennial here), the more it affects me.








