Brace yourself: Danes have it all figured out.

The design, the furniture, the height, the socialist monarchy thing, the bikes, the hygge, the generous paid maternity leave, the happiness thing, the food scene. NOMA.

It’s almost enough to make you never go there because it’s so damn perfect.

Which is why I kind of hated it?

OK, I didn’t hate Copenhagen, but it was a little too safe for me. Not sterile, but organized. Not boring, but … organized. Until Denmark, I’d mostly hit the countries of Romance Languages: Mexico, Portugal, Spain, Italy, Greece. OK, maybe Greece isn’t a romance language country, but it is a country of arid landscapes and hairy chests, so, you know, romance.

Up to this point, my only brush with Scandinavia had been a whimsical and short-lived love affair with a brooding Norwegian sailor who ended up being a little too brooding in the end. “We have darkness in Norway most of the year, Sarah,” he’d once said to me. “What do you want from me?”

But when IcelandAir launched its summer sale, the flight to Copenhagen from Boston was so cheap that I couldn’t resist. After all, I enjoy sleek Scandinavian design and fancy foods, pickled fish, and generally getting down and comfortable with the Danish cult of coziness known as hygge, which has practically become a global movement thanks to some good marketing and even this how-to book.

I had three nights only in Copenhagen and so my goal there was easy: Spend Thanksgiving break alone, shopping Christmas markets and eating some Michelin-starred meals in the world’s hottest gastronomical destination.

But none of that happened.

I cut my teeth in Myrtle Beach.

Growing up in North Carolina, it’s simply what you did: Pack up the stationwagon and haul ass to South Carolina to baste in the sun for one glorious week in the South’s redneck riviera. What I remember from those Myrtle Beach jaunts of my youth include fried shrimp suppers, big waves, motorcycles (the South!), and trying — even then — for a whirlwind summer fling.

Myrtle Beach was just about the least pretentious place on earth, which is why we all loved it. So when I moved to New England more than a decade ago, I took a while to warm up to the cold water along these rocky northern shores. Cape Cod. Nantucket. Martha’s Vineyard. Forget pictures, just the names of these locales carried the Kennedy cachet of deep pockets, Ralph Lauren-clad white people, and enough Puritan repression to power a yacht.

But, friends, I was wrong. Well, partly. New England has its snooty islands and beaches, to be sure, but Martha’s Vineyard isn’t one of them.

Yes, it’s expensive, and if you’re familiar with Martha’s Vineyard, you probably already know this — but for those curious travelers who want to check out this moneyed and mythic island, without a real clue of what to expect, this is the post for you.

In the fall of 2016, I headed to Martha’s Vineyard for the first time and the visit blew my mind. It was right after the election, and I’d been selected for a weeklong writing residency in the woods of Edgartown. The island was empty and magical; the tourists had departed, but the yearround residents remained, including the lovable weirdos who round out this quirky isle. I had a marvelous Uber driver tell me about the ways her THREE ex-husbands died (heart attack, heart attack, plane crash!) and then tell me to go see Johnny Hoy & the Bluefish over at The Ritz.

Seriously, I thought this place was for mean rich jerks, but after a week I was ready to pack it all up and move here. Last summer, I returned for a long weekend in the middle of high season with a girlfriend, had an absolute blast, and realized that everything I thought I knew about Martha’s Vineyard (minus the sticker shock) was wrong.

You know the feeling where you book a trip and aim to do everything and then as the weeks and days inch closer, you’re hounded with the thought of, “Oh shit, are we attempting to do too much?”

That happened to me, just this month, on a trek to Panama. The plan was to overnight in Miami for 4 days, jet to Panama City, spend the afternoon touring the sights before hopping on the fabled 11-hour bus ride through the countryside to beautiful, tropical, mystical Bocas Del Toro, on Panama’s Caribbean coast. Two nights in Bocas, we decided, and then back to Panama City to round out the trip before heading back to Boston and its harrowing cold.

Sounds good? Kind of.

Our flight from Miami was delayed due to fog, then delayed again, and twice more, so we decided heading straight to the bus station in Panama City was at the top of the docket when–and if–we ever left Miami.

We did. With our late arrival to Panama City, we immediately hopped into a taxi ($35) and headed to another airport–Albrook–the city’s secondary airport, bus terminal, and shopping mall. It is, in a word, HELL.

Every once in a while it’s good to do something that scares you shitless. This is me, above, scared shitless.

This is me entering into the cavernous underworld known as EcoRanchoMayamar, a cave and cenote system in Akumal’s jungle. And believe it or not, this was actually my second time going. The first time, I trekked four miles through the jungle by foot–bypassing potholes, mud, the threat of boas, panthers, and jaguars, all according to EcoRanchoMayamar’s enigmatic owner, Roberto.

Most people have cars, or find a ride, but my friends and I walked. The second time we knew better, and snared a dozing colectivo driver in Akumal’s pueblo by flashing a crisp $100 (in pesos).

Cenotes are everywhere in the Yucatan, but this one was especially neat because it’s on private property, and swimming isn’t the main focus–it’s more of a spelunking excursion. In a swimsuit.

As you move farther into the system, the air gets thicker, hotter. In some areas, we were literally crawling through passageways. It was a tad bit claustrophobic, but Roberto is an excellent guide.

I’ve spoken a little before about overcoming fear in Mexico, and that’s what I love about traveling, and traveling to Mexico specifically. There is always the vague threat of danger lurking. There is always some weird encounter or opportunity that pushes you. This was definitely one of those times.