If You Can’t Find Beauty Here, That’s Not the City’s Fault

Part 1 of a 3-part series on how travel reshapes us

Travel doesn’t just change your view. It changes you.

This is Part 1 of a three-part arc on how travel reshapes us:

• Outlook — how to train your lens to see beauty anywhere (even when your instinct is to bolt).

• Difference — why comfort kills travel, and what “karens” get wrong about the world.

• Contribution — how meaning deepens when you give something back.

And here’s my confession: if you’ve been reading me for a while, you know I’m not built for sweat. I’ve written plenty of Notes thanking adventure writers for the views I’ll never see. My natural state is more café table than mountain ridge.

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If you can’t find beauty in Dublin’s Temple Bar crush, the backstreets of Naples, or Paris in a heatwave—it’s not the place’s fault. It’s yours.

The truth is, I didn’t grow up knowing how to handle discomfort. My parents never fought. Life was polite, padded, and temperature-controlled. I was sheltered—figuratively and literally. Hotels, highways, and air-conditioning. No camping. No hiking. No lessons in what to do when life got messy.

So when life did get messy—when burnout swallowed me whole—I had no tools. Complaining was my default. Cynicism felt like realism. And it nearly broke me.

My doctor leaned back in his chair, looked me in the eye, and said the words that cracked me open: “Your job is killing you.” My inner voice added, “Or maybe I’m letting it.”

That was the moment I knew I had to leave.

Working in the oilfields of West Texas pushed my boundaries… It taught me every town has its charm.

So I quit. Retired. Slow-traveling the world. And somewhere between Lecce and Lisbon, I found a new lens. Not glasses—a mental filter.

Because perspective isn’t magic—it’s science. Your brain reinforces whatever it’s trained to notice. Cynicism is self-feeding. So is joy. But here’s the catch: insight alone doesn’t change behavior. Consequences do.

Reflecting pool at Chateau La Coste — Provence

I know something about change—I’ve spent 30 years coaching people through it. And the science is simple: what comes before and after a behavior determines whether it sticks. To summarize it in a way that’s practical for me on the road, I call it “The Shift.”

It’s not something I’ve mastered. I still decline to do plenty of things. But it gives me a way back when I catch myself slipping.

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Here’s how it played out in Connemara, when the rain started. The wind cut sideways. My pack pressed like a second spine. Every bone in my body screamed: QUIT! Go back down and get in the car where it’s warm and dry. Go back to town and hang out with Nigel in the local pub.

I tugged on Nigel’s rainproof poncho and shouted, “I’m not going any further up this f’ing hill. Let’s go back!” He saw I was serious, so that’s what we did. We turned around. Relief washed over me—warmth, dryness, safety. But my brain logged the wrong lesson: quitting works.

How could I flip the script? Introducing “The Shift.” To change my behavior in future circumstances, this is how it works:

1. Behavior (the new action): Start the shift by naming what you want.

   My target is simple—climb the damned mountain. And tell Nigel ahead of time if I don’t want to do it.

2. Antecedent (the new setup): What might help ease the transition? This is important because, without new tools or instruction, people can’t change.

   Actions I can take to better prepare: small walks in inclement weather, go on light hikes, invest in gear designed for the elements.

3. Consequence (what happens after my new behavior): This is the most important part. Without new rewards (or punishments), people won’t change.

   Nigel calmly, rationally, authentically pushes back and doesn’t let me off so easily. He explains why it matters so much for him to personally reach the top. He carries on without me.

That last one is especially hard for me, because I don’t like conflict. I’d rather smooth things over, retreat, or joke my way out. But when Nigel pushes back, I can’t sidestep it. I have to face it. And sometimes that’s the only thing that gets me moving.

Sidenote: Nigel, if you’re reading this—your boundaries help me grow. They’re the consequence I actually need if we’re going to get to the top. I know you want me to be happy, but sometimes happiness is delayed—and amplified when we accomplish something difficult together. (I may regret saying this later.)

Don’t let the smile fool you. This was before the rain…and before the quit.

And it’s not just trekking. The same thing happens in cities.

If I avoided every crowded stop, we would have missed some of the best magic: a fiddler tuning up in a packed Edinburgh pub, a burst of song in a crowded Naples alley, a laugh shared on a Paris Métro when the train lurched and everyone toppled together.

If you can’t find beauty in a crush of people or a city that overwhelms you, that’s not the city’s fault. It’s your lens.

The truth is, crowds make me want to bolt. Chaos makes me cringe. Sometimes the smell alone is enough to turn me off. But if I quit too soon, I only get the relief. If I stay, I give myself a chance at wonder.

Edinburgh weather provided many opportunities for growth

And here’s the irony. Quitting my job gave me a breakthrough. It wasn’t a dead end—it was the open road. The best decision I’ve ever made.

But in travel, in trying new things, in the small discomforts—quitting works against me. It feels good in the moment (warmth, relief, escape), but it trains my brain to avoid, not expand. That’s when “The Shift” helps: check the behavior, reset the setup, and lean on consequences to keep going.

So I live in that tension: learning to tell the difference between the kind of quitting that frees me and the kind that cheats me.

And this, too, is advice to myself. Because the truth is, I’m still practicing. Even at our home base in Houston, I’m avoiding the sweltering heat, slipping back into old patterns. But now I catch it faster. Sometimes I even laugh at myself for being an “inside kid.” That’s progress.

If you expect perfection, you’ll only find disappointment.
If you demand comfort, you’ll miss the wonder.

But here’s the mantra I choose now:
If you want beauty, look for it.
If you want meaning, create it.

But maybe outlook is only part of the story. Maybe travel personality types aren’t fixed at all. Maybe “that’s just the way I am” is the most dangerous lie a traveler—or a leader—can tell.

I used to fuel myself on stress. Now I fuel myself on stories. If this post lightened your lens, you can buy me a coffee (or a glass of wine) to keep the words flowing.

This is Part 1 of a three-part series on how travel reshapes us. Part 1 explored outlook—training your lens to see beauty anywhere. Next up: Part 2, The Beauty Is in the Difference—why comfort kills travel, and what “karens” get wrong about the world.