There’s a particular kind of thrill that comes with securing a reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant—especially one with a months-long waitlist and just a handful of tables. It’s a moment that feels like victory: a reward not only for one’s appetite, but for persistence, timing, and a bit of insider know-how.
Some places speak. Others whisper. And then there are places like the Scottish Highlands—places that simply stand, silent and immense, holding their own counsel until you’ve stood in them long enough to understand their language.
The first time I came home from an overseas trip with a mobile bill that could have paid for another flight, I told myself, “Never again.” I was young, dazzled by cobblestone streets and café culture, and far too quick to refresh Instagram every time I found myself in a queue. One blissful week in Paris cost me $468 in roaming fees—which, in hindsight, was a very expensive lesson in the fine print of mobile plans.
