If anyone had told me that, in the prime of my life, I’d be isolated at home—stripped of all the work I’d spent sixteen years building and thirty years imagining—I’d have said they were crazy. But if you create art for a living, you already know it’s true: we’re all back to square one.

–

My brother gave me my first guitar at fifteen, a lifeline after my father’s untimely death. It instantly became the only thing in the world that mattered—and at that time, it was.

That little Las Vegas house reverberated with Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Ozzy and Randy Rhoads, Return to Forever, and the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Those artists offered a promise of hope I’d never felt before—a surreal, imaginary world I desperately wanted to join. The guitar didn’t just change my life—it saved it.

By high school, I was taking my guitar everywhere, playing between classes just to satisfy my obsession. I was so focused on getting better it nearly replaced my interest in girls. Little did I know then how much that connection to music would save me in the years to come.

–

At nineteen, I moved to Los Angeles to chase a dream: becoming a rock star. I couldn’t believe that was an actual job—and one that paid well! After just four years of practice, I truly believed I could show up, find Axl Rose, and get started. I even had outfits ready.

I landed an audition with a charting band. They loved my playing but told me, “You don’t have the right look.”Considering I had long hair, tight clothes, and chops to match, I realized they meant my weight. That one stung. I went on a diet immediately. That was my first real lesson: the entertainment industry isn’t easy—or kind.

But tell me I can’t, and I’ll find a way I can. So it was back to my mom’s Las Vegas house to regroup.

–

At a local jam night, a touring band invited me to sit in. By the end of the night, they asked me to join them. I had three days to learn forty-five songs. Then we hit the road.

That tour taught me everything—band dynamics, touring life, professionalism, stage presence, deadlines, spotlights. It was addictive. It also introduced me to the world of record deals. Even at twenty-two, my gut told me something wasn’t right. The band wasn’t me. So I quit.

Back to Vegas again.

–

The next eight years were pure creative freedom. I wrote, recorded, and produced my own music—an empty whiteboard full of possibility. I assembled the best musicians I could find, mixing Bang Tango with Led Zeppelin and Alice in Chains. Funky, heavy, drop-D grooves—what could go wrong?

A name producer came to scout us. I still remember that day: I drove straight from my restaurant job to pick him up, looking like one of the DeLeo brothers with a biker braid. We played three songs before he asked, “Do you want the truth, or do you want to take me back to the airport as friends?”

I wanted the truth.

He said, “You guys play great, but you have four different images and you’re writing for an audience you don’t even have. You’re too technical. Start with ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’ before you get to ‘Kashmir.’”

That stuck with me forever.

The band didn’t last much longer. We tried reinventing ourselves—NIN meets Tool meets Linkin Park—but the new image demands destroyed us. The aesthetic masked my drug use for a while, but both the band and the habits eventually dissolved.

–

I shifted to being a hired gun for record-deal acts. The shows were bigger, the audiences sang along—it felt like progress. I landed a major-label gig, quit my job, and got ready to tour. Then the labels merged, shelving newer acts without sales. Just like that, it was over.

Back to the drawing board.

–

One night I got a call to sub in for a hair metal cover band—in costume. My first instinct was “absolutely not.” My girlfriend convinced me to at least check it out. I couldn’t believe what I saw. They were like Bon Jovi—and the gig paid well.

That night, something clicked. If I couldn’t be Aerosmith, maybe I could play one locally. It was ridiculous, over-the-top—and it worked. The dumber we were, the louder they screamed. And I loved it.

I started my own 80s tribute band. We got gigs, acted like fools, got paid, and went home to our own beds. It was the perfect formula. Until my producer called and accused me of “moonlighting.”

“You know that’s a breach of contract,” he said.

I told him, “If anyone should be mad, it’s Simon Le Bon, not you.”

He lost it. I didn’t care. That was the moment I realized—no one controls your art but you.

–

For the first time, I was a small business owner. Three people, setlists, schedules, payroll, quality control. I was naive, a little reckless—but learning fast. The bigger picture was finally coming into focus.

One night, the singer and I were out when Jay-Z’s Izzo (H.O.V.A.) came on. I said, “We should do a hip-hop cover band. No one’s doing it.” We locked eyes. No words needed.

From that moment, the company was born.

One hip-hop band became two. Then came a classic rock band. Then a punk band. Then an all-request band. Then top 40. The calls kept coming. Properties wanted to franchise the acts. Three people turned into seven, then ten, then fifteen. Before I knew it, I had twenty people working and fifty musicians gigging every week.

Three hundred shows. One hundred fifty gigs per month. A full-scale production company.

And then—the closure happened.

–

How did sixteen years of work vanish in five days? Everyone knows the answer. It’s the most universally understood event of our time.

I never thought it would end. I used to joke about retiring before it ran out—but I never imagined starting over.

–

Seventy-eight days later, I got my first post-closure gig offer. My first in nearly three months. Sixteen years ago, I went from fighting for my first gig to producing 150 a month. Now, I’m back to number one again.

It’s a deep cut—but not to my ego. I’ve never celebrated “success.” I’ve always believed what goes up must come down. That mindset kept me grounded—focused on the craft, not the cash. But it’s been a ton of work: countless hours, headaches, betrayals, and failures. Still, I stayed with it. Because I’m an artist through and through.

And that’s why I’m doing this again—not for me, but for the artists behind the performances. They’re the reason I started this company: to create a safe haven for musicians to do what they love in a post-Napster, now post-Spotify, world.

I love artists—musicians, comedians, painters, actors, directors, storytellers. I love people bearing their truths. I love the truth itself—so much it sometimes hurts. The truth fills me like a spiritual meal and resonates like a choir of facts. I can’t imagine a world without creativity—or creative honesty.

And I can’t wait to see faces light up when live music returns. Humans need connection. I’m no different. Give me 5,000 people for average pay over ten for annual pay—I’ll take the big stage every time. Because we thrive on contact. There’s nothing more vital to society than those who inspire it.

We’ve been there through every tragedy—and we’ll be there after this one. It’s our job. We wouldn’t miss it. Most of us wouldn’t have stopped playing if they hadn’t turned off the lights. Remember the Titanic? Most of us will play until the water reaches the neck of the guitar and silences the voice.

It’s who we are.

–

They always ask, “What would you say to your younger self, twenty years ago?”

I’d say: Don’t worry too much about where you’ll end up—it isn’t yours to control. It’s all temporary. The clothes, the car, the house, the money—it’s trivial.

Enjoy the adventure of creating the best version of yourself possible. Because when you finally come up for air, you can only hope you like the reflection.

And do something that excites you. If you’re lucky, you might make others happy in the process.

I had a predetermined vision of Chile: the world’s southernmost stretch of civilization, seven climates from desert to ice caps, a folkloric, immaterial Eden where water and air might as well be wine and song. I still suspect that’s true—but the city’s people had bigger plans for themselves. (That last sentence makes me proud of Chileans.)

About three weeks before we left, the country began showing signs of civil unrest. By the time we were ready to fly, a million people were in the streets. It started over a subway fare hike and the rising cost of living. A thirty-year-old art teacher summed it up best: “We can’t return to normality—we haven’t achieved anything yet. The reforms the government is proposing are superficial and do not solve the deeper problems—it is not about 30 pesos, it is about 30 years of abuse of power.”

President Piñera reshuffled his cabinet, dismissing Interior Minister Andrés Chadwick. On November 15, most parties in the National Congress agreed to call an April 2020 referendum on drafting a new constitution. “In an April 2020 plebiscite, Chileans will be able to vote on whether they want a new constitution and whether it should be drafted by a mixed citizen-legislator convention or one comprised entirely of elected citizens. More than 80 percent of Chileans support a new constitution, according to recent polls.”

To be determined. Anything involving the redistribution of power and money is always “to be determined,” usually by the people trying to keep both.

–

Argentina

I’ve read that Buenos Aires is the “Paris of the South.” Comparisons are subjective, but they do help people decide what to try—music, art, travel, restaurants. The phrase is catchy, and I wondered how it came to be.

“Argentina didn’t gain its European flair during its era under Spanish rule. After independence in 1816, Argentines didn’t want to employ their former colonizers. Instead, they looked to visionaries from other European countries—France and Italy—to design their capital.”

The city is everything I imagined and more: culinary mastery, world-renowned wines, and a European atmosphere intertwined with vibrant Latin American roots. Most surprising was how welcoming it felt. It didn’t feel like a vacation. Unlike Paris—regal, romantic, majestic—I didn’t feel like I needed to ask permission for anything. It felt like home.

Argentine children smiled a lot. They looked more loved than in many places I’ve been (as silly as that sounds). There was a photographic quality to families there—a strong sense of structure. Lovely to be around.

There were dog walkers everywhere. I don’t know why the chaotic tangle of leashes feels so sweet. A reverse Christmas tree of panting tongues—sniffing, peeing, smiling, happy to belong. Most dogs are like that. Most people, too—though fewer sniff each other’s butts in public. Most.

Cars rule pedestrians. Traffic signals appear mainly at big intersections. No lights, stop signs, or yields on many corners, and pavement markings read like suggestions. Outside the car, Argentines are kind; behind the wheel, they Tetris their way to the front. Pedestrians lack the right of way even with a walk signal. You watch the turning cars, because they may not stop.

Smoking still seems popular. I’m amazed it’s popular anywhere, including Paris. Once information is available, excuses are personal. I saw some people frown and fan the air—not near me—and while I’m an ex-smoker from a lifetime ago, the only thing I’ll say is: smoking will kill you, and fanning the air makes you look funny.

Most surprisingly, music still matters there. Considering it’s my livelihood, it blew my mind how passionately South America loves music. I don’t just mean professionals—I mean passion. Lustful concern. Avid, fierce desire to get it right, often for very few people. (Yes, covers.) I saw a band play for eleven people with more conviction than most show a hundred. It took me back to childhood—wetting my hair, grabbing an ax handle, and rocking to Kiss Alive II in my bedroom. In my current world, music is also a business—goals, style, expectations, image, pay. Remove curiosity and conviction changes. Then you change. True for most things in life. The more you know, the harder you have to work to keep it fresh. For a city of nearly three million, Buenos Aires still plays with passion, curiosity, and innocence. It was beautiful.

–

Brazil

My knowledge of Rio before visiting was “The Girl from Ipanema,” “Copacabana,” and Carnival. Two out of three ain’t bad?

At first glance, Rio’s natural and constructed contrasts are gorgeous. One block hums with beachy vibrance; the next unveils historic mountainscapes. Then, favelas in between.

A favela is a low-income, largely unregulated neighborhood long neglected by the state—no zoning, little oversight, few public services. Recycled tiles on flimsy shacks, illegal power extensions, blue water cisterns.

“Geography is destiny” fascinates me. What were you born into?

I read about a ten-foot fence along the highway from the international airport. Behind it, Maré—sixteen favela communities, many under gang control. Explanations vary: sound barrier, “welcoming wall” for the 2016 Olympics, or a way to hide an eyesore. My taxi driver, Mario, put it plainly: during rush hour, thieves walked onto the highway and robbed people at gunpoint. Everywhere has class divisions, but this may be the starkest I’ve seen—extreme wealth and poverty stacked together. Some favelas have views rivaling the high-rises. Digging deeper, I found something inspiring: many communities created and elected their own leadership—cities within cities, for the people, off the grid, on their own. I could spend a week on socio-economic abandonment and the basic roles of government, but it’s not my place.

I went to my first Brazilian football match—67,000 people singing the entire time. Cheering, screaming, tossing beers—in-fucking-sane. Flamengo vs. Ceará. I’m told I was lucky: they won. Brazil is the only team to play in every World Cup, and they are crazy about the sport. I’ve never been to war, but it felt like the beginning of one: ten people, then fifty, then thousands—disorderly, nervous energy cresting in waves, then sudden pandemonium. Screaming. Celebration. I felt like a dog who keeps peeing on the carpet when everyone’s looking. But I wasn’t. Sort of.

Taxi drivers harbor real disdain for Uber drivers—class disgust, though taxis do well. They hate delivery bikes even more: Uber Eats, iFood, Pedidos Já, Mr. Food. The entire delivery system seems to run on motorcycles, and they’re on the clock. Traffic laws? Optional—even in front of police. Rush hour becomes a symphony of Roadrunner-like meeps in Morse code. Kids on rental bicycles delivering food added to the spectacle. Everyone hustles. I respect that.

Portuguese is harder than I expected—or maybe people were harder on my attempts. Everyone was polite, so I’ll say both. Google Translate struggled—vowels and consonants off, pronunciation misleading. Locals helped me more than the app. The language sounds laced with French. Locals insist it doesn’t. Au contraire sounds French to me. Ah, bem.

I still don’t understand the cheek-kiss greeting. It feels as odd as saying “bless you” after a sneeze. In South America, it’s real. I had to read more.

• One kiss: Colombia, Argentina, Chile, Peru, the Philippines
• Two kisses: Spain, Italy, Greece, Germany, Hungary, Romania, Croatia, Bosnia, Brazil (like France, it varies by region), and some Middle Eastern countries (though not between opposite sexes)
• Three kisses: Belgium, Slovenia, North Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Egypt, and Russia (often with a bear hug)

“…touch cheeks and administer an air kiss—a soft smacking sound, as opposed to the more bombastic mwah!—forgoing any actual exchange of saliva.”

Superstitious, ritualistic customs make me feel weird. When forced into a quick kiss hello, I don’t make the noise. I’m not fake lip-smackin’ for anyone.

Cars rule pedestrians here too. (Insert the same paragraph from Buenos Aires.) Still, I saw three different buses stop for someone running to catch them. Maybe not standard practice, but nothing beats those small victories. I love when the bus waits. I hope everyone’s bus waits.

–

Many people tell stories until those stories become their truths.

“When your beliefs are entwined with your identity, changing your mind means changing your identity. This is why facts don’t change minds.”

We see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, believe what we want to believe. It’s a survival mechanism to shield us from our greatest fear—the truth. The terrifying possibility that maybe it’s all for nothing. Maybe it’s a symbolic separation from our parents, fantasy over reality, aloneness, personal or spiritual evolution, responsibility, mortality.

We demand perfection from others while lacking the self-reflection to refine ourselves. We work, save, purchase, and hope—expecting our nest-egg dreams to come true. We pray that life will resemble the fairytale in our heads. (Read that again.) But even the wealthiest can’t buy perfection, avoidance, or a way around life. Prayer won’t change outcomes; it may ease your path, but divine intervention isn’t for sale.

The sooner we realize it’s going to be okay—regardless of outcome—the sooner we accept what is. The sooner we become happy, always, no matter what happens. We’re fragile and doing our best. A little self-acceptance goes a long way.

–

People often ask, “How do you travel to so many places without speaking the language?” I joke about Google Translate (though Portuguese isn’t its strong suit). It saves me daily, but the real answer is simpler: a little effort and a lot of humility. Try to fit in. Try to speak the language. Show effort. Be ready to say sorry—a lot. Show, with your actions, that you’re grateful to be wherever you are. Remember you represent the next stranger who shows up. Be of the earth, not merely on it. Look people in the eyes with respect. I’ve yet to find any currency that spends more freely than respect.

If you knew someone would inherit your place on this marble and pick up exactly where you left off, wouldn’t you try harder to leave a kinder, more refined legacy? That’s how I feel about travel. I didn’t purchase the right to bulldoze through foreign lands. I was afforded a rite of passage. Revocation is up to the locals.

To be determined—this time by the people who actually wield the power. Fortunately, I’m only trying to keep my memories.

Japan is my favorite country to date—on another level entirely, with zero exaggeration. These are the kindest, most honorable, hard-working, forward-thinking, and technologically advanced people I’ve ever encountered. I’m in awe of their grace.

This is a nation of 127 million people, and—generally speaking—you’d be hard-pressed to find a trash can. Even more impressive? You’d be harder pressed to find any trash on the streets. It’s simply understood: people take their garbage home and recycle it. Japan is also among the ten safest countries in the world. Reported crimes recently fell to 915,042—the lowest level in the postwar era. Meanwhile, the economy experienced its longest stretch of sustained growth in nearly three decades, driving unemployment down to just 2.8 percent.

Add to that:

• Not-for-profit healthcare (!),
• Incredibly efficient and punctual transportation—bullet trains that can cross the country in a few hours,
• Public lost-and-found systems that actually return your property,
• Clean public restrooms with heated seats, bidets, and touchless controls,
• Cheap alcohol (legal to drink in public),
• Excellent food on every corner,
• Taxis with driver-operated passenger doors,
• Discreet call buttons in restaurants,
• A shared social understanding not to talk on phones in public,
• Masks worn not just for health, but out of respect for a clean, considerate workforce.

And everywhere you go, people are kind—genuinely kind. The cities are dazzlingly modern, yet rooted in deep tradition. Walking through Japan feels like stepping into both the future and the past at once. Pure harmony. Imagine Shogun and Minority Report in full agreement.

The only thing they haven’t quite solved is spare change. It’s everywhere. Every transaction comes with a tray, as if to say, “Prepare yourself—coins incoming.” Why they keep this up, I’ll never know. But if that’s the worst inefficiency in a country this well-run, I’d say they’re doing just fine. Their social contract is unshakable. The world could learn a lot from Japan’s respect and order.

–

Our final day perfectly captured the Japanese experience. We attended the 2018 National Cherry Blossom Festival—blankets spread across the park, stories told, drinks poured, laughter shared, people celebrating Earth and life itself. The air smelled of savory and sweet foods in harmony, children played, music floated through the park. Spring was alive, and so was everyone in it.

We followed the sound of a children’s musical rehearsal and stumbled upon swan-shaped paddle boats gliding across the lake. Nearby, a Malaysian woman fed sparrows from her hand. Then, a woman—drunk on love—was FaceTiming a dramatic soliloquy of longing for all the park to hear, set to the soundtrack of Disney on Ice. It was perfect.

Japan, I respect you. I’m grateful for your warmth and hospitality. Please know—the pleasure was all mine.

Arigatō gozaimashita. Mata au made, Japan.

As I wind down my three-week, three-city tour of Colombia, I’m reminded of a few things. But first, a preface about the country that completely won me over

When I first announced I was visiting Colombia, nearly everyone I knew tried to stop me—or at least strongly caution me. It was as if the ghost of Pablo Escobar were still running the reels of a 1980s Medellín newsreel in people’s minds. Granted, Colombia has seen some dark times. But what fascinates me even more is humanity’s inability to let go of the past.

In the U.S., we live perpetually clenched—afraid of the unknown—our fears hammered into us like a captive bolt pistol in a slaughterhouse. We’re stuck in a cycle of “everyone’s out to get us” because “we’re the best.”

Well, allow me to shed a little light. Yes, the United States is remarkable—but not because we say so, and certainly not because we think we’re better. What makes us great is our spirit of generosity, our culture of opportunity, and the sense of welcome we used to embody. When America acts on her best behavior, her policy of generosity surpasses anything I’ve seen anywhere else in the world.

Right now, she’s just in another growth spurt—and like any good salesperson, the best way to move a used car is to make it seem shinier than the others on the lot. I’m neither mad at her nor sad for her, and most importantly, I’m not influenced by her scorn. This too shall pass. With the imagination, ingenuity, and love of future generations, she’ll find her way back to herself again. Of that, I’m sure.

–

Medellín

When I flew into Medellín, I had no real expectations. I knew what most people knew—Escobar, crime, and its former title as “the murder capital of the world.” But what did I actually know about its people? Nothing. And that’s how I prefer it. I like to arrive blank—to experience what I call a Baptism of Culture.

From the moment I stepped off the plane, I felt different—immediately welcomed in.

Medellín is a city in metamorphosis—bold, modern, and deeply intentional. Its dignified public transit system, The Metro, reaches far into vulnerable comunas. Hillside escalators connect communities; mesh networks bring internet to underserved neighborhoods; five “library parks,” new museums, cultural centers, and schools enrich the city’s poorest areas. Medellín is leading the world in urban innovation, focusing on social wealth through investment in early childhood.

It’s no wonder The Wall Street Journal named it the most innovative city in the world (2013) and the UN chose it to host the World Urban Forum (2014).

The two defining pillars of Medellín are democratic architecture and education with dignity. Their philosophy: find happiness in tragedy. Truer words have never been spoken.

Medellín even offers free walking tours as part of its rebranding. My guide, Carlos—bright, articulate, full of pride—put it perfectly:

“The new Medellín is not only yours or mine; it’s ours. And together, we’re working very hard to show the world that we are not only safe—we are desirable.”

He also shared a Colombian children’s story that captures their ethos: “Ahora no, Bernardo” (“Not Now, Bernard”) by David McKee. In it, a young boy is ignored by his parents—even as a monster eats him and takes his place. The moral, as Carlos explained:

“Our children are our future. If we don’t listen to them, we’ll create a new generation of monsters.”

So simple. So pure. So true. Bravo, Carlos. Bravo, Medellín.

–

Bogotá

Bogotá felt exactly like what a capital should: sprawling, historic, systematic. Nestled high on the Bogotá Savanna in the Andes, it’s Colombia’s largest city and home to colonial landmarks, world-class museums, and the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of government.

My five-hour private tour included the financial district, the President’s residence (Casa de Nariño), the Museo Botero (a favorite), the Museo del Oro (Gold Museum), the graffiti district, a cable-car ride to Monserrate, and finally a street fair celebrating the Assumption of Mary—an “Escape from New York”-style parade where anyone could sell anything. It was the world’s largest, most chaotic garage sale—and I loved it.

Highlights:

• La Candelaria — The city’s historic center, lined with Baroque and Art Deco architecture.
• Zona T — Bogotá’s exclusive entertainment hub, full of restaurants, nightclubs, and high-end shops.
• Monserrate — A 17th-century church and shrine, perched 10,341 feet above sea level. The panoramic view alone is worth the trip.

Bogotá is grand, chaotic, and endlessly fascinating—a capital that carries both its history and its heart on full display.

–

Cartagena

Cartagena—the “old city” or “walled city”—is a colonial fortress town wrapped in color, rhythm, and romance. Narrow cobbled streets, music on every corner, world-class food, and architecture that could stop time.

The street performers were next-level:

• Hip-hop kids rapping fresh verses over the same four tracks (including Dr. Dre’s “Still D.R.E.”).
• Mimes—from classic silent acts to dramatic, costumed performers who’d wait hours for a few coins before springing to life.
• Artisans and musicians blending into the daily hum of laughter, hoofbeats, and horse-drawn carriages.

At the heart of it all sits Plaza Santo Domingo, surrounded by outdoor cafés, performers, and Botero’s sculpture “La Gordita.” With warm breezes, candlelit dinners, and the clatter of horse hooves echoing through narrow streets, Cartagena feels like a living fairy tale.

–

From watching children in Medellín’s schools find their voice, to wandering Bogotá’s carnival-like markets, to dancing through Cartagena’s streets—I left Colombia full of admiration and gratitude. A few takeaways:

• Wearing shorts in Medellín makes you look like a tourist.
  Wearing pants in Cartagena makes you look like a tourist.
  Bogotá doesn’t care what you wear.
• Every city has a busking Iron Man. Seriously. There’s a business model waiting there: The International Busking Iron Man’s Union.
• Don’t slam taxi doors. It’s universally frowned upon. I don’t know why. It just is.
• The 11th Colombian commandment: “A papaya dada, papaya partida.” Translation: What’s given can be taken. In short—don’t flash your valuables.
• You can take unfinished alcohol to go from restaurants. Yes, really. “Buy the bottle—it’s cheaper.” “But I only want one round.” “No worries, take it with you.” It’s legal everywhere.
• Trying to buy a size 11.5 shoe in Colombia is like trying to publicly discuss Pablo Escobar. Just don’t.
• Fruit vendors with microphones exist solely to tell you their fruit is better than the guy’s next to them. Loudly. Endlessly. Why the other guy doesn’t move, I’ll never know.
• Tactile paving for the visually impaired exists on nearly every sidewalk. A reminder: it’s really not that hard to take care of our blind.
• Everyone in the world loves Usher’s “Yeah.” Unless they work wherever it’s playing—then they’re allowed to hate it.
• Electric razors for men are rarer than gold. And forgetting your charger? Fatal mistake.
• A kind smile and gentle disposition can communicate across any border. That—and Google Translate.

–

Be kind. It’s the only form of currency accepted worldwide.

As I wind down my three-week, three-country tour of Southeast Asia, I’m reminded of a few things. But first, here’s a bird’s-eye view of the road less traveled.

–

Thailand

Thailand is a beautifully rich country filled with content, confident people. They seem perfectly at peace—grateful for what they have, and equally unbothered by what they don’t. It’s remarkable to witness a culture so enriched by its day-to-day life that it radiates a sense of pure oneness, an effortless feeling that everything is as it should be. These are the traits of a calm, stress-free existence—and I resonate with that. Deeply.

–

Cambodia

Cambodia struck a deep chord with me. The people are weathered yet innocent, kind, generous, and accommodating—while still respectfully guarded. You can see generations of history in their eyes and the early glimmers of healing on the surface. Never, and I mean never, have I encountered a people who carry such a profound, quietly kept soul-secret. The impact of my short time there will last a lifetime. A powerful place.

–

Vietnam

Vietnam is one of the most fascinating countries I’ve ever visited—a complex social mosaic right on the surface. It’s a 21st-century metropolis layered directly over a sidewalk economy, and somehow, both coexist in complete harmony.

Rush hour rivals any city on earth—full-contact traffic in every direction, a surreal dance of motion that feels choreographed by instinct. Then, as if on cue, the day shift retreats by 7 p.m., and the night owls emerge to play. Complete, chaotic synergy. It’s mesmerizing.

Even more remarkable were the people I met. Whether in conversation or quick encounters, they were warm, funny, and fearless. They’d tease our accents, our style, even our camaraderie—all with a charm and wit that never crossed the line into disrespect. I’ve never met such naturally engaging and spirited people right from the first hello.

–

From riding a scooter the length of an island to celebrate a full moon on Koh Phangan—an event that happens everywhere else quietly but here becomes a global phenomenon—to climbing the ancient majesty of Angkor Wat, the largest religious complex in the world, to drinking banana wine deep in the marshlands of the Mekong, I am reminded of a few things:

• Walking through the streets of Bangkok, I finally understood what it feels like to be a woman. I couldn’t walk fifty steps without being catcalled like a damsel on a construction site. Good to know Stella still has her groove—even if it’s for money.
• More people equals more stress. Fewer people equals less stress. Remember that when you’re trying to recalibrate.
• The car horn in Asia is used a lot. More than I’d prefer.
• I’m now convinced that when Asian travelers wear masks in the U.S., they’re not sick—they’re just protecting themselves from pollution.
• Religion is an idea that means vastly different things to different people. Practicing it is a state of mind. Projecting it is a state of weakness. No one cares what you think of their deity until you tell them why they’re wrong. Unless asked, don’t answer—and even then, ask yourself if it’s worth your breath. Chances are, people are far more beautiful in mystery.
• Electric razors for men are harder to find in Southeast Asia than gold—and I didn’t even look for gold.
• Staring at the ocean can cure most things that have gone awry in your life. Most.
• A kind smile and gentle disposition are all you need to communicate across the world. Well, that—and the Google Translate app.

Be kind. It’s the only form of currency accepted worldwide.

As I wind down my one-week stay in Boulder, Colorado—sitting here in the Denver airport—I thought I’d jot down a few words about my new favorite small city.

Boulder is as enlightened as it is exquisite, as charming as it is electric—a true breath of fresh air. Imagine a city of 90,000 people, split between Silicon Valley types and collegiate fresh-brains, converging into a progressive yet laid-back think tank. Health, well-being, education, art, and quality of life are all woven into the city’s DNA. Everyone I met was open, curious, well-read, and just plain cool.

These folks are some of America’s biggest and brightest—freely engaging in metaphysical, political, social, and spiritual discussions without a trace of ego. I’ve never encountered such warm, high-intellects ready for real conversation, and it felt fantastic.

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Flying in from Dallas, I spent a week with one of my dearest friends, Rich, and his girlfriend, Elena—and wow, did they know where to go.

We dined exclusively at farm-to-table restaurants, sipped exotic teas and coffees imported from Bali, grazed on locally sourced charcuterie boards, drank an entire day’s worth of organic juices and milks, and woke each morning to the smell of freshly baked bread from a nearby artisan bakery.

We snowboarded two world-class mountains, took a painting class, escaped an escape room, and even pulled off a last-minute photo shoot with a local model and fashion designer. Rich even gets his personal supply of milk and yogurt from a guy’s garage—he literally knows the door code.

If that weren’t enough, one night a local chef brought our dinner straight from his own farm to our table and shared its backstory. Super. Cool.

Author’s Note: To be completely honest, I thought I was fairly progressive before this trip—but I hadn’t experienced this degree of socially conscious living until Boulder. It was a treat. It brought out something natural, pure, and positive in me—as it should in anyone.

We so often live with a sense of expectancy and denial about where our resources come from. This trip was a wake-up call. I’m heading home more aware, more intentional, and eager to evolve further in how I live and consume. Humbly, onward…

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As I wrap up my stay in Boulder, I’m reminded that we don’t need to make mountains out of molehills, cry over spilled milk, or cling to any other hand-me-down idioms from the village elders.

Boulder doesn’t need any outsider’s noise—it’s a peacefully advanced small town that’s writing its own story. If you go (and I highly recommend you do), go on your best behavior. They deserve it. They’ve earned it.

Boulder feels like a fresh-start utopia—a soft reboot from consumer chaos and corporate takeover. Sure, there’s a Starbucks and a McDonald’s, but for every one of those, there are three spirit-cleansing outposts waiting to baptize you in calm and clarity. The forward-thinking energy here is contagious.

So the next time you’re planning a getaway, might I suggest Boulder, Colorado? It may just remind you that the best vacation you can give yourself isn’t an escape from life—it’s a reset for your consciousness.