Tropic Wonder (Part 2): The Journey Begins – Travel Story from Winter to Warm Sun

Late winter has a way of stretching time.

The snow lingers on the ground. The trees hold their bare branches steady against pale skies. We move through our homes layered in cozy clothing, turning on lights earlier than we would in another season.

Somewhere in the middle of it, a particular thought might arrive.

What if I went somewhere warm?

For some people, it’s not as an escape. Not to rush away from winter. But simply to experience the soft shift from snow to sand, from wool to linen, from brisk air to warmth that settles gently onto bare shoulders.

It’s a special time to prepare for travel when it’s done without urgency. Packing slowly. Choosing thoughtfully. Letting the idea of a place warm you before you even arrive.

The story you’re about to listen to grew out of that feeling.

It begins in winter — with snow along the street and a suitcase open on the bed. It follows the small rituals of preparation: selecting what to take, leaving behind what belongs to the season at home, walking through the village for a few simple additions.

From there, it carries us through the airport, into a window seat, and across shifting light. The journey itself becomes part of the restfulness. The change unfolds gradually, just as it should.

Tropic Wonder: The Journey Begins is the second story in a three-part series, though they each stand comfortably on their own. It’s about allowing a vacation to begin long before arrival. About noticing the movement between seasons. About feeling okay that winter will be waiting when we return.

If you’re listening on a cold evening, I hope it feels like a warm beach stone in your pocket — something to carry with you until spring.

If you’re already somewhere tropical, perhaps it will help you remember that travel can be unhurried. Thoughtful.

Wherever you are, I hope you find a moment to pause.

To imagine.

To arrive, slowly.

🎧 💜 If you'd like to listen, instead of read - the narrated podcast version of “Tropic Wonder: The Journey Begins ” is available HERE🎧

🕯 💜 I create MICRO-EXPERIENCES inspired by The Slow Life — these are short, gentle reading moments designed to help you slow down and rest in the village for as long as you like. They’re available to enjoy on screen or on paper, individually or in small bundles HERE 💌

Enjoy the story 🌴

I begin packing slowly, not because I’m trying to decide on anything in particular, but because this is how I want the vacation to feel from beginning to end. The suitcase lies open on the bed, its lining clean and pale, ready to hold what I choose to take. Outside, winter weather continues without interruption. Snow rests along the edges of the street and decorates the trees and rooftops.

I start with the things I know I will wear most. Comfortable clothes that move easily, fabrics that breathe. I roll each piece carefully, but I know I don’t need to be overly efficient; I have plenty of space. A few light dresses, pairs of linen pants, and soft tops that will feel good against warm skin. I pause to imagine each item in use — mornings, afternoons, evenings. I ask myself what I’ll want to have with me, from head to toe.

I automatically reach for a small pile of favourites, but decide these will stay behind. My sweater that fits underneath my coat, thick socks for bedtime, the cardigan I reach for as soon as I get home. Winter will be here, intact, waiting for my return, and so will these cozy things.

Just before lunch, I take a short walk through the village to pick up a few things I don’t already have. Nothing extravagant. A new sunhat, simple and well-made. A pair of sandals that feel sturdy enough for walking, but light enough to forget once they’re on. I choose sunscreen with a coconut scent, and a small cloth bag that will fold easily into my suitcase and come out again when I need it.

Shopping like this feels different from shopping out of necessity. Each item feels like part of the fun, even if it’s simply a tiny bottle of shampoo. Nowadays, I trust myself to know what will be useful and what will go untouched.

At home, I add these new pieces to the suitcase. I tuck a book into the side pocket, one I’ve been saving, its pages still crisp. I place my journal on top, along with a pen that writes smoothly. What will the setting be, I wonder, when I write in it on my trip?

It’s the night before I leave, and I move through the house with a sense of quiet preparation. I water the plants. I straighten the rooms, knowing I’ll appreciate their tidiness when I get home. The bed will be made with extra care in the morning, the duvet smooth and inviting for my return.

Sleep arrives easily, and I dream of the tropical beach I’ll soon be lying on. I wake early and rested, the suitcase already waiting by the door. Winter greets me through the window, reminding me to dress warmly for the journey, in layers that feel comfy rather than cumbersome.

The drive to the airport unfolds without drama. Roads are clear, the sky pale and open. I watch familiar landscapes pass by, then slowly give way to wider stretches with fewer markers. By the time I arrive, I feel fully awake and excited for the whole experience, which I know started the moment I had the idea to travel somewhere.

Inside the airport, movement surrounds me, but it doesn’t feel frantic. I move through each step with ease — checking in, passing through security, finding my gate. There is time to sit, to observe, to notice the quiet rituals of travel happening all around. Bags are tucked under chairs. Coats folded over arms. People all on the move, but for now, we’re all right here.

When the plane is ready, I find my seat without hurry. The window beside me lets lots of light in. I set my bag at my feet, and allow myself to settle, promising not to rush any part of this.

As we lift off, I watch winter recede gently below. The snow-covered ground becomes a painting, abstract and beautiful. I appreciate every season we have in the village. This season has been delivering the coziness I need. And it will still be here when I return.

The flight itself is quiet, giving me time to read, then close my book and let my thoughts drift, or watch parts of a funny movie I’ve seen once before. The hum of the plane becomes a background of comfort. I drink the water that’s offered, and tea with refills, then sit with my eyes closed, more for meditation than for sleep.

Somewhere along the way, the light outside the window changes. It grows brighter, warmer in tone. Clouds thin, revealing a different colour beneath. When I look down again, the landscape has shifted. Blues deepen. Greens appear where I don’t expect them. Water catches the light, wide and sparkling.

As I step off the plane and into the terminal, I feel no urgency in the way I move. Warmth meets me gently — not as a shock, but as an invitation to remove my coat. It settles on my skin slowly enough to ease me into it.

I move through the airport with the same calm rhythm I’ve carried all along, collecting my bag, following signs that guide me to everything I need.

Outside, the air is fragrant with something unfamiliar and pleasant. I pause, to allow it to sink in — the softness, the warmth, the way my shoulders relax on their own.

Comfortable transportation waits, as my travel agent friend had promised. The drive toward the resort carries me through landscapes that feel expansive and welcoming. Colours look saturated and full of life.

When we arrive, the entrance opens into a space designed for ease. Low buildings arranged thoughtfully. Pathways that curve rather than point. I step out of the vehicle and feel the sun fully now.

I head inside to the front desk inviting me to move forward, staff moving calmly and efficiently through their tasks. I set my bag down, take in the space, and feel the shift that’s happening.

I have arrived.

I wish you sweet dreams.