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Most travel planners sell you a place. We sell you the view feeling you'll still be chasing three years later, when a stranger's perfume smells like that one Tuesday in Palermo and you have to sit down.
Lavender, one shared bottle of rosé per night, zero seating charts.
Three islands, one ferry sob, a haircut in Naxos she did not plan and does not regret.
We booked the sea-view table. She booked the lemon tart twice.
Every dinner reservation is intentionally 40 minutes late. It's a bit.
Separate villas. Shared sunset. Science.
Phone goes in a wooden box on day one. The box has a lock. He cried. Good.
One bungalow, one boat, one out of office reply that just says "no." We time your arrival for low tide so your first walk is on a beach that disappears by dinner.
A 45-minute call. We ask about your last good cry, not your budget. (Budget comes later. We're not animals.)
Your trip arrives as a story you can read in bed. Chapters, not bullet points.
Two rounds of edits. Say "less museum, more aperitivo" and we will obey.
You go. We stay reachable. You stop being reachable. That's the whole point.
You planned a trip so good I forgot my ex's middle name. I'm still working on his first one.
My mother and I laughed for 8 days straight. We have not done that since 2009. Unwell. Grateful.
The phone box had a lock. I hated you on day one. On day four I wrote a poem. It was bad. I was happy.
Tell us what's wrong. We'll tell you where to go.
cliché, and?
barefoot mandatory
silent mode
do nothing, loudly
