There is a specific quality of light in Iceland in September that doesn't exist anywhere else I've been. Not just a golden hour — something older than that. The kind that makes the lava fields look like they're still cooling and turns every waterfall silver. You drive for an hour without passing another car. You stop not because you planned to but because you have to.
The Ring Road is the obvious route to truly experience all of Iceland — and it's the right one. What makes it or breaks it is pacing. Most people try to drive it in seven days and spend the whole time rushing. Ten days minimum. Fourteen is better. The extra days aren't for seeing more things. They're for actually being there and savoring it.
Late September is the sweet spot. Summer is crowded and the midnight sun, while spectacular, makes sleep harder than people expect. Winter is dramatic but road conditions are unpredictable and some routes close. In late September the Northern Lights and autumn colors are starting to show on the moss, and the weather is temperate enough to make packing straightforward.
After landing and picking up your car, go straight to Sky Lagoon. It sounds indulgent for day one — it is, and that's the point. Geothermal water, views out to the North Atlantic, and the best possible way to trick your body into forgetting what time zone it left. One night in Reykjavík, then you're on the road.
Go counterclockwise. Most people head east first — going west means your opening stretch is the Snæfellsnes peninsula, where the coastline is rugged and dramatic and the pace is slower than anywhere else on the island. Continue north and spend a night at the Siglo Hotel, tucked into a small harbor inlet surrounded by mountains. The rooms have window seats that look out over the water. Sit in one long enough and you'll understand why Icelanders don't seem to be in a hurry.
From there the Ring Road opens up — Viking settlements, sheep crossing the road without apology, steaming geothermals, lava fields that look freshly poured, and volcanic calderas you can climb to the top of and stand in the wind feeling like the only person on earth.
The stretch between Vík and the glacier lagoon at Jökulsárlón is where most people put the pedal down to make time. Don't. Pull over at Fjaðrárgljúfur canyon — it looks like someone folded the earth in half and walked away. Most Ring Road itineraries don't even list it. When you're done, the Umi Hotel rewards you with sunset views over the Westman Islands and a breakfast the next morning that you'll think about for weeks.
A soak at Laugarvatn Fontana followed by warm rye bread baked underground in a geyser, as featured on Netflix's Down to Earth with Zac Efron. It's exactly as good as it sounds.
Marrakech is where most people start and, for a lot of them, where they stay. That's a reasonable choice but also a missed opportunity. The Medina is everything you've heard — colorful, disorienting, loud, beautiful, relentless — and worth two full days. But the country opens up past it. The blue streets of Chefchaouen. The silence of the Sahara at dawn. The drive through the Atlas Mountains that no itinerary template ever seems to include.
Morocco is one of my favorite trips I've taken — and one of the few where I'd plan it very differently if I went back. The Medina is genuinely disorienting in a way that's exciting for about an hour and exhausting after that. A good local guide changes everything — not a tour group, a single person who knows the city and can read what you need. It's the difference between being pulled through a place and actually being in it. I'd build this into every Morocco itinerary I plan.
Stay in a riad — a traditional house built around an inward-facing courtyard garden, usually hidden on a narrow medina street. From the outside they look like nothing. Step inside and you're in another world entirely. Zellige tiles, carved wood, Tadelakt plaster, and a quiet garden courtyard that feels like an oasis in the middle of the chaos. It's the closest thing to actually living like a Moroccan resident.
If a riad isn't your speed or you need a break from the medina intensity, La Mamounia is worth an afternoon even if you're not staying there. It's the kind of place Winston Churchill went to think. Walk through the gardens, sit on the terrace with a coffee and a macaron, watch the light hit the zellige tilework.
For trips with enough time, I'd also arrange a journey out to the Sahara. You cross the Atlas Mountains to get there — the drive alone is worth it, with incredible Berber history woven through every village along the route. It's long. Do it anyway. A couple of nights in the desert, the rose-gold sand at dusk, a camel ride, and the kind of silence that's hard to find anywhere else. It's the part of Morocco most people don't see and the part they talk about longest when they get home.
A homemade Moroccan breakfast — freshly-made warm msemmen, fresh honey, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cheese, and jams. The kind that appears on your riad's courtyard table and tastes like it was made just for you. And if you have time: a traditional hammam. The real kind, not the tourist version.
Morocco can feel daunting solo but is absolutely doable with the right preparation, a qualified guide, and the right properties. Happy to talk through what that looks like.
France doesn't need defending. It is, in fact, as good as everyone says — but most people only see Paris and leave unfulfilled because they spend four days crammed among other tourists doing the things you're supposed to do, leaving feeling like they've checked a box. The version worth taking stays just long enough to see the musts. Then it goes south.
Provence in the right season smells like nothing else. Lavender in July, yes — but also the dry heat of the garrigue, the rosé that only tastes right there, the markets that start at seven and are over by noon. The small Provençal villages that slow the pace down and feel impossible in the way that only very old places can.
Start with two nights in Paris. Do the things you're supposed to do — the Eiffel Tower, the museums, the landmarks. They're iconic for a reason. But leave room for the meal that matters most: a small, unremarkable-looking restaurant on a side street where the food is extraordinary and the atmosphere is entirely Parisian. No English menu outside. Just order what they bring.
Then take the train to Aix-en-Provence. Slow everything down. This is not a city you rush — it's one you steep in. Morning walks through the old town, lunch in a sun-drenched courtyard, early markets where the lavender and olives and cheese are genuinely local. Aix has a particular pace that Paris doesn't, and that's exactly the point. Give it at least three nights.
Finish in Cassis. On your last morning, find a table at a small café on the harbor and have breakfast while the fishermen bring in their catch. Locals arrive to buy directly from the boats. It's one of those scenes that feels like it shouldn't still exist and does. Spend the rest of the day in the Calanques — steep-walled limestone inlets carved into the coastline, closed to cars, with views over the Mediterranean that stop you mid-step. Most people who visit France never see them.
The Calanques outside Cassis. Go early before the heat and the crowds. Wear shoes with traction, bring plenty of water — and a baguette with jambon and beurre for when you find the right rock to sit on.