People who’ve traveled with me a lot will tell you that I can be guilty of trying to do too much. To be honest, I didn’t fully figure out how to take a proper beach vacation until well into adulthood, because I’d always worry that I wasn’t being active enough. By now I’ve mastered the art of a trip designed expressly for relaxation, but in a city there’s still the urge to go, go, go.
In early June I had a rare weekend alone in London and big, ambitious plans for how to spend it. But I also had a cold and was feeling slightly worn down from work and travel and life. So I decided it would be perfectly okay to slow down a bit. My chic room at the Marylebone Hotel had a spectacular terrace where I whiled away a morning reading and drinking coffee in the benevolent sunlight. Later I dropped into an Ottolenghi deli nearby, where I ordered a plate of artful salads before waiting out a sudden rainstorm by discussing my book (Miranda July’s All Fours, the read of the season) with other diners at the communal table. After the rain stopped, I strolled through Hyde Park to check out Judy Chicago at the Serpentine; when the rain started again (this was, after all, a spring day in London), I took shelter under the eaves of a café and watched the rowboaters on the lake get soaked. And there was Enzo Mari at the Design Museum, a visit to Savile Row, and several glorious naps and hotel meals. It wasn’t too much, and it was just enough.
Slow travel can mean a lot of things—like an immersive journey through otherworldly Chad. It doesn’t usually mean cities (like Philadelphia). But perhaps it should. Cities can also reward the choice to focus on the quality rather than the quantity of your experiences. Curiously enough, I’ve found that this approach makes it a little easier for me to imagine myself as a local.
This article appeared in the September/October 2024 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
