Continuing to drop some eaves, I wondered how they could stay at this hotel for a week. There was nothing particularly elegant about them, other than their presence on the 39th floor and the endless city lights as their backdrop. To be fair there was nothing elegant about me either, but it wasn’t my bar, I was just a stray someone let it. Trust fund babies? Credit card points, perhaps? Another sip. Even if I could, would I drop $1,500 a night to stay here? Maybe...yeah, maybe, I mulled as boldness started to spill from my glass.

“Champagne?” the bartender asked, already mid-pour. Why yes, yes of course, I thought.

When you’re at a six seat hotel bar next to two other compatriots, it’s inevitable that you’ll become friends within a drink or two. Add a convivial bartender and you’ll be exchanging WhatsApp details by the end of it. It was their first full day, so they were still a little jet lagged. They were from San Francisco and met at work and decided to take their friendship to the next level. Things were getting serious, apparently. In any case, the puzzle was sorted, some kind of tech money I figured, maybe even newly minted A.I. equity to help ease the nightly rate.

We ended up closing down the bar and in the elevator on the way down I asked them to which floor they were headed as I reached to press “L”.

“Oh no no, we can't afford this place,” they responded, “we just came for the bar.”

We all laughed.

That’s the allure of the hotel bar, I suppose, a taste of elegance. And there’s perhaps no better place for elegance than Tokyo.

Here are a few hotel bars in Tokyo worth a visit.

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En route to a listening bar I passed through Shibuya Crossing. As the lights turned green a full spectacle was on display. People from all sides of the intersection sprinted toward the center of their respective crosswalks before stopping to pose for photos. One couple had quite the performance - the woman jumped into the man’s arms and he twirled her around as her outstretched hand clutched her phone.

It’s a surreal thing, being a tourist in a place consumed by tourism. Consumed in all ways, on the internet before you get there and on the streets while you’re there. Before I stepped foot in Tokyo for the first time, I’d already seen its alleyways, train stations, ramen counters, and neon signs thousands of times.

We’re all implicated in the consumption, of course. The night before, I went thirty minutes out of my way to photograph the Uonami Fish Bar because I’d convinced myself every other image I’d made in Tokyo was hot garbage and maybe this one would be different. It was a known entity, something even I couldn’t really fuck up. The flip side is that it’s one of the most photographed places in the city and hardly an interesting photo - I knew exactly where I’d stand before I got there. So I understood the twirling couple a little too well.

I was right about the listening bar. Though technically I needed a second pour to realize my frustration had less to do with Tokyo than myself. This was my second trip to Japan and I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to say about it. Why did I feel the need to say anything at all? For content, I suppose. But every time I peered through the viewfinder, I felt like I was competing with an image already made.

Tokyo is intimidating because it exists in a strange paradox. It’s one of the most visually interesting places I’ve ever visited, yet also one of the most familiar. We’ve already seen so much of it. Thousands of photographs, videos, and blog posts have turned entire neighborhoods into something resembling collective memory. All that documentation leaves you with an uncanny feeling, almost as if you’ve been there before.

First up, big news! I’m very stoked to share a new essay out in Tomato Tomato, the new food and culture project created by the brilliant and talented . You can think of this essay, “In Praise of Cask Ale”, as a companion piece to much of what I’ve written about pubs in the past. This time around, I posture that perhaps the very nature of cask ale — its chemistry, constraints, fussiness — can foster communities.

Back at The Woolpack, the squeak of the old wood floors began to crescendo as muddy boots spilled into the country pub for the night. Eventually, that window behind the bar was fogged over as the small room filled to standing room only, with men and women, young and old alike. Spend enough time in a busy pub and it’s inevitable that you’ll talk to strangers. For me that night, it was Paul.

A big thanks to Alicia for letting me wax poetic about beer and pubs. But don’t just stop at mine, there is a ton of wonderful writing coming out of Tomato Tomato, so definitely take a look at the first two editions. You can learn about Cointreau, Boston’s food scene, gentrification in Puerto Rico, or even the inner workings of styling food for TV. I’m seriously honored to be among all the super talented writers in this collection.

Postcards and Snail Mail

If you’ve ordered a print from me (aka are a paid subscriber), you might have received some extra snail mail recently.

I had been thinking about sending postcards for a while, though my original idea was to buy a small printer and make my own on the road. I haven’t quite gone that far yet, but when I was in Japan a few weeks back I walked by a stationary store in Takayama and figured why the hell not. These are on Japanese paper, washi, I think, and because it was sakura season I got some nice cherry blossom stamps from the post office.

I thought it would be fun for two reasons. First, snail mail is fun, especially from halfway around the world. Second, I thought using another country’s postal service might be an interesting window into the place. Like doing most of anything in Japan, the Japan Post was incredibly efficient, the staff was polite, and getting these sent out took all of five minutes. It just worked.

I’ve heard from a few people who received theirs in the mail, so hopefully that means they were all delivered successfully. But if you didn’t get one I totally blame the Japan Post because I’m clearly infallible and my questionable penmanship is definitely not to blame.

The plan going forward is to make this a regular feature for paid subs. I’m thinking of including some location-specific intel in the postcard — maybe a bar/restaurant/activity/etc. — almost like a collectible travel guide. If that sounds like your kinda thing, consider signing up for paid membership (which gets you all kinds of other stuff too).

Subscribe now

I can’t promise a cadence just yet, but there’ll be more opportunities in the next few months with upcoming travel. I do have a couple extra postcards from Japan and from my last trip to The Cotswolds, so if you didn’t get one I can still send something your way in the next few weeks.

Reading / Watching / Listening

Not only did craft a second edition of Tomato Tomato, she also managed to release a new book, On Eating. I really enjoy her writing and this was no exception — vulnerable, introspective, and opinionated, everything I love about her work. Also, three consecutive chapters on oysters, martinis, and mushrooms was like reading a kindred spirit of food & drink.

“The End of Elsewhere,” — A thought-provoking read about travel, a certain type of travel, that had me both nodding and shaking my head at varying intervals. I have so many thoughts, one of them being that I don’t think I’ve ever traveled to “find myself.” I know it’s a trope, but if that’s a primary motivation I think we’re doing it wrong? Though to be fair I don’t think I could find myself even if he bummed a cigarette outside a dive bar.

“Sunday at La Bombonera,” The Paris Review — One of my great regrets after spending nearly two months in Argentina is not going to a Boca Juniors game in Buenos Aires. Until next time, which there will be, this will have to do. Definitely adding The Game at the End of the World to the reading list.

“Do You Play Flamenco? Music, Dancing, and Sherry in Jerez’s Tabanco Bars,” Pellicle Magazine — I’ve really enjoyed the travel & drink writing coming out of here lately.

“On Drinking,” —

Just like the proliferation of GLP-1 use I see among those who were already slim but want to become size XXSes, the anti-drinking swell seems to me to reflect a lack of true want. You control your appetites. You are productive. You maximise efficiency. You don’t yearn, don’t desire. It is a facsimile of the ascetic, spiritual life devoid of either asceticism or spirituality. There is no room for life’s complexity or ugliness or volatile beauty, for the overflow of emotion and creativity and pint glasses. You aren’t meant to be hungry and now, I suppose, you aren’t meant to be thirsty either.

“The People Don’t Yearn for Automation,” The Verge — I like this framing quite a bit and think it explains a lot of the adverse feelings toward the latest AI-induced automation.

“Why New Smartphone Cameras Feel Worse,” MKBHD — I know there are a few photogs subscribed here that have probably noticed a specific look from phone cameras recently. TL;DR: The computational photography going on behind the scenes is making them very bright, mid-toned, with absolutely no shadows. My advice for anyone looking to improve their photography, even on their phone, is that shadows are important. Please use them.

“Welcome to Paris, the City That Said No to Cars,” Bloomberg — A fascinating look through Paris’ journey to increase walkability over the years. I genuinely forgot that cars used to drive along the Seine. Actually I don’t think I was ever there when it wasn’t pedestrian-only. It’s amazing how much can change in just 10 short years, especially when we in the U.S. have a proclivity to believe policies like this are too difficult to actually get done.

Last thing, and a random one. If you’re like me you’ve been consumed by the NBA playoffs for the last month. While scrolling through NBA takes, I found this game, 82-0, that stole a few hours of my life. Basically it’ll randomize a team and a decade, and you try to assemble a hypothetical starting lineup that projects to win 82 games. Whenever teams from the 2000s came up, names I haven’t read in about 20 years hit me right in the nostalgia. After far too many spins, I finally went undefeated.

Try the HoopIQ mode.

That’s it for this week, folks. I have at least four more pieces from Japan rattling around, and a few personal ones I’m working up the nerve to send. We’ll get there.

Talk soon.

Skylar

Now it’s 6 am and you’re wiping the crusts out of your eyes. What’s that, regret? You’re going to call a $100 Uber, any thoughts of taking public transportation were aspirational at best. Good thing you saved $50 by taking the earlier flight. That’s big brain math right there. Anyway, that $15 AMEX credit isn’t going to spend itself.

You walk past the check-in counter, wondering why those still exist. People are checking bags anyway. Fools. Why would you risk sending your luggage on its own odyssey.

You glide through security, shoes on and toiletries tucked away because you have TSA Pre-Check, of course. But your bag is taking an eerily long time to emerge from the x-ray machine. You watch other travelers fumble through behind you, letting out a quiet chuckle when someone has to take their shoes off and go back through. Petty, sure, but it makes you feel good.

Then your bag stops short. Heart rate rising. Fuck. Why is it in bag jail? Do these things scan for weed?

Is this your bag?

Uh, yes, sir. You always go polite in these situations. Obedience. Does it help? No idea, but here you are. As they tug on the zipper, you remember the Jenga masterpiece you assembled the night before. Pour one out because that shit isn’t getting put back together.

You pass inspection. Next up: the Duty-Free Store, your next litmus test. But you’ve never purchased cologne in your life, so why start now. Good man. Plus, those lounge mimosas aren’t going to drink themselves.

Are you flying first class? Elite member? Oh, you’re not rich rich? Sorry, lounge is full. Peasant. Instead you spend the next two hours slamming $30 mimosas, glancing at the departure board between sips.

The gate is a clusterfuck without a semblance of a line. Is this everyone’s first day on earth? Idiots. The plane’s been “boarding” for thirty minutes now and nobody’s moved. Eventually a voice comes on the loudspeaker, but you can’t hear it over the louder loudspeaker the next gate over.

The crowd murmurs as the public sorting ceremony begins. Are you a Group A kind of guy? How about Group B? Didn’t think so, step aside, pauper.

Why are you nervous? You always put yourself between them and your carry-on. Can’t risk any size queens giving your backpack the eye. Nothing to see here. You hand over your boarding pass. They look at you. You look back. They know. They know you know. You know they know you know.

They scan your boarding pass anyway.

You saunter down the jet bridge, glancing at your boarding pass for the hundredth time. 32B. Right. Middle seat. Damn it. You step onto the plane, past the smug lie-flat passengers already in slippers working on their champagne. Bourgeois fucks, you mutter.

Your row is empty. For a moment you let yourself believe. Then you see it peering over the seat in front of you - a chubby-cheeked infant. It smiles. Devious little thing. It knows exactly what it’s about to do.

Eventually you’re in the air and the flight attendant draws that little curtain. Hear that? A few rows behind you the meal trolley squeaks to life.

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One of my strongly held opinions is that the U.S. is incapable of having pubs - anything called a pub in the States is just cosplay. It’s not just the physical space itself, but about how we congregate, talk, and coexist. The American bar selects its crowd before anyone even walks in the door. Or maybe we self-select. Either way it’s antithetical to the purpose of a pub, where the whole community - men, women, young, old, rich, poor - can exist. Held strongly perhaps, but I’d love to be proven wrong.

And then there’s the soul. Most people have a relatively fixed idea of what the pub is and has always been - a place to drink. If pressed, they’d conjure an old building, a dark wood bar, a fireplace, a pint of Guinness. That’s not wrong, but it doesn’t tell the full story. Before there were courthouses, pubs held hearings. Before theaters, pubs put on shows. Before music halls, pubs had concerts. The drinking changed too - some used to just sell wine (taverns), others only ale (alehouses). They’re less stuffy old institutions, more living ones, always amenable to whatever a community needed.

A few years ago I talked to Dan Chadwick, owner of one of my favorite pubs in England, who talked about the soul of pub:

“You don’t put your taste into the pub. It’s not your taste, it’s a pub. You understand the history of the objects, the natural things that accumulate in a pub - a trophy for this or this, a bit of plastic, the type of packaging that you just keep. You don’t apply taste and expect people to like it. You don’t need anyone’s approval. You just let it be.”

That organic energy is what makes them fascinating, and because of it, if you look closely enough you’ll probably learn something about a place.

A few weeks ago I was in the Cotswolds, a region that has evolved from wool-powered market towns to sleepy agricultural backwater to countryside playground for well-heeled Londoners. It’s a history and evolution you can feel by visiting a few pubs throughout the region.

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After a minute or so at the intersection, I saw a big cluster of cars coming my way. I stretched out my hand, signaling for salvation. No luck. Another wave of cars, still nothing. Figuring it must be the side of the street I was on, I crossed to try my luck in the other direction. Sure enough, right as I got to the other side, a few taxis zoomed by going the opposite way. Damn it, I grumbled. It was almost midnight and I was getting nervous that a ride would be harder and harder to find.

Finally - a taxi saw my helpless hand, turned on its hazards, and careened toward me. The door opened and I jumped in.

Konbanwa, I said, one of the five words of Japanese I could offer. I pulled up the address of my hotel on Google Maps and slid the phone beneath the plastic divider. He turned on the cabin lights, studied my phone, and punched the address into his own GPS. Okay, okay, he nodded, handed the phone back, turned off the lights, and started the meter.

Tired from a long day of walking, I sank into my seat and gazed out the window. It was my second-to-last night in Tokyo and I started to feel sad watching the city pass by. I always get nostalgic when I’m about to leave a place - a trait I could live without.

“You visit?”

“Uh, yeah,” I looked up to meet my driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Where from?”

“The United States. Seattle.”

“Ohhhh...Ichiro?”

“Yeah, Ichiro!” I thought about telling him I got Ichiro’s autograph when I was little, but that seemed long winded for a taxi ride.

We were driving through a stretch that still had people crawling about and stumbling out of izakayas. Every few seconds he’d point to something and speak in Japanese. I’d nod along and mutter the occasional ahhhh to feign understanding. He was friendly and relentless with his pointing, the kind of guy who would keep talking to you as if you were fluent.

A few minutes in, I pulled up Google Translate and asked him what his favorite food was.

“Ohhh, hmmm.” He paused, clearly a question he takes seriously. “Soba,” he eventually said.

“Ahh, soba...oishii” - one of the other five words I could muster.

“Oishii?” He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“Oh yeah, of course...I mean, uh, hai, hai.”

Then he was off again, excitedly pointing and speaking Japanese. This time, after enough stupid grunting from me, he seemed to pick up that I did not in fact understand. We rolled up to a red light and he opened the translate app on his phone.

“Do you have time?” he asked, holding up the screen.

“Uhh, hai,” I replied, confused but going with it anyway.

“Soba,” he said emphatically, pointing to our left. He pulled the car over, pointed at the meter to show me he’d stopped it, looked at me for assurance, then enthusiastically gestured me out of the car.

“Oh, uh, hai,” I nodded.

The soba shop was bare bones - a ticket machine to order and one or two people working behind the counter. He took out his wallet and fed 1,000 yen into the machine, looked at me, and pointed. Realizing he wanted me to order, I pulled out some cash and held it out. He waved me off and pointed at the machine again.

I couldn’t quite make out what I was getting, but from the pictures I could tell I had my choice of soba in broth, soba in broth with shrimp tempura, or about twenty other variations of it. I picked the bowl with tempura - it was big and bold on the screen, clearly the featured option. Good choice, I thought to myself as he ordered the same. The machine spit out two tickets, which we handed to the woman behind the counter.

By the time I’d washed my hands, two trays of soba and shrimp tempura were waiting on the counter. He gestured me over to the condiment section and narrated all the options in Japanese. I took a few scoops of the ones he seemed most excited about.

Then we sat down and slurped. Between bites we’d pass our translation apps back and forth. I asked where he was from, how long he’d been in Tokyo.

“What’s your name?” I finally asked.

“Tono,” he said. I typed it out on my phone to confirm the spelling.

More slurps, more questions. I learned that he was from a town in northern Japan that had been lost to an earthquake. That he’d been in Tokyo for twenty years. That he lived near where he’d picked me up and that I was his last fare of the night. And that this happened to be his favorite soba shop - cheap and oishii. More questions, more slurps.

As we were leaving, I gestured at my camera, hoping for a picture.

“Ohhh, hai” - he turned, raised both arms, and gave me a big triumphant flex of the biceps.

After a few shutter snaps, he glanced outside, pointed at his car and scampered out. I followed and found him already posing next to the taxi.

That was it. We climbed back into the taxi, he unpaused the meter, and off we went to my hotel. I thought about it the whole way back.

A few months before Tokyo, I found myself in San Francisco in my first Waymo. It was fine, interesting even - I spent the whole ride watching the steering wheel turn and correct, turn and correct. The driving felt surprisingly natural, actually, from the acceleration to how it crept into intersections to take a free right. Genuine engineering marvel.

But when I asked the friends I was with what they liked about it, nobody led with safety, traffic, sustainability, or any of the typical pitch deck bullet points. The consistent refrain was some version of: “You can pick your music and temperature, nobody tries to talk to you, and it doesn’t smell.”

I didn’t really disagree. But I also can’t remember a taxi’s smell, music, or chatty driver ever costing me much sleep. You’re in the thing for what, twenty minutes?

One of the marvels of Tokyo is the abundant, relatively affordable taxi. Even at midnight in a random neighborhood I was able to flag one down within a couple minutes. For someone my age, that’s a novelty - whatever big-city taxi-hailing days I might have had were swallowed up by the press of a button. But there’s something about hailing a cab that feels...right? Tactile? Intuitive?

I think it’s the power dynamic. When you hail a taxi your arm is out in the air asking for help - you’re powerless, waiting for a stranger in the right place at the right time to answer your call. That reciprocity is important. When you order an Uber, Lyft, whatever, that dynamic inverts completely. You command them to you. The transaction is already underway before a door has even opened - we both see the fare, ratings, conversational preference. The transaction is centered, not the person.

I was thinking about all this on the ride back to my hotel with Tono. My soba noodle fever dream would never have happened in an Uber. Too much rigidity, too frictionless for soba. I’m acutely aware of how technology shapes our travels, and while I’m ready to be anti-technology, I can’t, exactly. Without my smartphone and Google Translate, I might never have tried Tono’s favorite late-night spot. Or learned that his hometown was swallowed by an earthquake. To me the distinction is that one facilitates a human connection, the other supplants it. And somewhere we started optimizing for the latter.

There’s a good chance I’m romanticizing my time with Tono. After all, most taxi rides are just quiet, uneventful rides. But sometimes they’re meaningful. When millions of small human moments are replaced by a couple swipes, how many times are we missing out on a good bowl of soba?

This first edition is particularly manic, which reflects a manic first quarter of the year for me. Buckle up.

Prints

First up, there’s a new print available for paid members.

It’ll be printed on 11 x 14 fine art paper with 1-1.5” borders. They’ll be shipping at the beginning of May (probably). Interested?

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San Pancho, Mexico

We spent a few nights down in San Pancho in early February. It was a lazy, beachy trip fueled by raicilla and carnaza. Since I wrote about raicilla a few years back, I’ve been pretty keen on Jalisco (and Nayarit). I think there’s a strong case to be made for Jalisco having the best food and drink in Mexico. That’s a big statement, I know. I’m not committed to it, so if someone would like to prove me wrong please do.

San Francisco, California

Two nights in the city in early March, mostly to see family and friends, but with some time to wander around. The first night I used Meander, which took me to Capo’s by Tony Gemignani - solid old school American Italian, no complaints. Also made it to Foreign Cinema, which was a cool space with solid food & drink. We had a lunch there but supposedly in the evening they’ll play old films while you eat.

Question for my SF friends though - why do restaurants close at nine? Is there really no appetite for a late night happy hour?? It still feels like I’m alone on that island...

Newark, NJ

Boring life stuff took me to Newark, NJ in mid-March. I showed up with low expectations - lower than that, actually. But I had no reason for such negativity other than longstanding misguidedness after almost 10 years on the East Coast.

I spent two nights near the Ironbound neighborhood, which is heavy with Spanish and Portuguese immigrant populations, and had two of the better meals I’ve had this year. The first night was at Casa d’Paco, a tapas bar that was really excellent. The bartender, who was from São Paulo, told me to go to Sabor Unido, a Brazilian joint, the next night. Also great.

He scribbled down a few other spots on a notepad. I didn’t have a chance to go to all, but based on his enthusiasm and the Sabor Unido recommendation, I imagine these are worth a visit.

Related, handwritten recs from someone who actually lives there should be the new currency.

The TWA Hotel

You already have my pictures, but a little more context on the hotel itself since I did stay the night.

It’s expensive, about $350 or so per night. The room was fine - clean, simple, and comfortable. Though at that price the value is really just in existing in the terminal, which you can do for free without a reservation. That said, I enjoyed wandering it at night, which is easier to pull off as a guest. You could pay more for a room with a view of the runway, but then you’re over $400 easy. The gym is massive and well outfitted, if that matters to you. But unless you’re flying out of Terminal 5, it’s pretty inconvenient to get to and from the terminals and you’ll have to go through security to catch your flight.

It’s a beautiful space and I’d stay there again, but only if the timing worked out well enough.

The Cotswolds

After Newark and a night at the TWA Hotel, it was off to England. This was a quick trip, only four nights. But it was the kind of trip where I didn’t have to think too hard. After The Morning Tipple, I know my way through the Cotswolds well enough to show a friend around and have some proper cask ale in a good pub. And that’s exactly what we did.

The first stop in the area had to be Stroud Brewery. Stroud is unique because 1) it’s one of the only taprooms in the country that predominantly serves real ale and; 2) it’s a real community hub for residents of Stroud. The food menu is also very vegetarian friendly, the halloumi burger was fantastic. It’s no accident either because Stroud is the reflection of Greg Pilley, a friend of mine and founder of the brewery. A while back he did some really fascinating research on the relationship between alcohol and communities - he’s just one of those guys who has so many stories and it’s always a good time chatting with him.

More on pubs and the Cotswolds soon.

Photography

For my photography nerds out there, the image below on the left was the location of the first ever photographic negative ever taken with a camera like what’s in the middle.

It was made by rich guy William Henry Fox Talbot at Lacock Abbey. We had some cool light coming in that I was particularly fond of on the left hand side of the window.

Gear

On most of the above trips I took the Matador GlobeRider 35L backpack. It is almostttt ready to replace the Minaal 2.0/3.0 as my favorite travel backpack. It packs well, enough organization (though almost too much), and carries well. I picked it up last year and I just find myself reaching for it more and more. That’s a big deal, because I’m a backpack snob, so I don’t say that lightly. If you’re in the market for some upcoming travel and want a good backpack, especially for one-bag ventures, give this one a look.

I’ll be sending out an updated kit list shortly.

Reading / Watching / Listening

’s new book, On Eating, is out next week! Alicia is one of my favorite food and culture writers around so it was an instant pre-order. Very stoked to read it.

Alicia also launched a new digital publication, Tomato Tomato. If you like reading about food and culture, this is for you. On Boston was one of my favorites from the first edition.

Cocktails, Always, Again by Julia Langbein in Gourmet Magazine. Drinking expensive cocktails in expensive places while the world burns.

Are You Enjoying Our Linguine? by Francesco Pacifico in The Dial. An essay on tourism and pretty much existing in 2026.

Death at the White Hart by Chris Chibnall (of Broadchurch). It’s a pub-y murder mystery set in a small town in England, which is pretty much right up my alley. It was a quick and easy read, but plenty satisfying.

The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham. A random read, for sure. It’s loosely based on Gauguin and asks whether genuine creative genius is fundamentally incompatible with everyone and everything around it. The last fifty pages or so are a little weird.

The Knight of the Seven Kingdoms on HBO. I was pretty nervous to give any more of my attention to the Game of Thrones universe, this was a great watch. It’s a fun change of pace and more light-hearted than the other GoT shows. There is some Battle of the Bastards level intensity, though.

Industry on HBO is a guilty pleasure. It’s like Succession but more cocaine and sex. A good binge on a long flight.

---

Phew, that’s it for this month. I’m sure I left something out, but we’ll try better next time.

Skylar

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But times have changed. Or I have, apparently. Recently I was flying out of JFK en route to London with an extra night to spare. We had about 24 hours, though sadly most of that time was going to be spent on our computers, biding time until the PTO kicked in. There really wasn’t enough time to venture into the city for shenanigans - next time, I told myself. Instead, I figured it’d be a good opportunity to try out the TWA Hotel.

I fully expected it to be gimmicky - an overly trite attempt at selling nostalgia for a time when flying felt less tedious. But one drink later, sitting in the Sunken Lounge on those ruby red seats, listening to some bar banter, watching the flipping and flapping of the old departures board, and I was fully bought in.

I love airports late at night. I mean, they’re a strange place during the day - we all know airports exist in a liminal plane outside space and time. But even more so at night. The business travelers and families are mostly gone. Everyone’s a few drinks deep and the bartenders have a little extra “fuck off” energy. Meanwhile, the fluorescent lights and jet lag have sent you into a state of delirium. The TWA Hotel’s retro, mid-century fever dream was a fun addition to the airport high.

It did confirm one long-held belief of mine: romance died with the split-flap display.

The problem I have with most of the discourse around taste is the attempt to quantify it, which is antithetical to the construct itself. Trying to programmatically define what’s cool is objectively not cool. Besides, taste is ineffable, so it won’t work. But more importantly, taste isn’t uniform and is derived from class, race, experiences, work, thin air, and who the fuck knows what else. When someone mentions taste, I find the conversations allude to some kind of spirituality, like a person who “has taste” was ordained by the divine. So when trying to declare who does, or does not, have taste, there is inherently some uncomfortable cultural baggage.

That said, we do need to bring back some assertions of quality. We’ve exiled the gatekeepers and ushered ourselves into slop hell to just “let people enjoy things.” How many people gave a like to a stupid A.I. video of rabbits bouncing on a trampoline while they swiped right past an artist painting from their heart? How many more Wagyu burgers must I skip past on a menu until we say enough is enough? It’s grim out there, folks. I know we don’t like institutions anymore, but if we don’t do something it’s going to be fucking A.I. slop and man cereal from here on out.

So we should bring back the snobs. Yeah, that’s right, I’m all in on snobbery. Film snobs, wine snobs, food snobs, anime snobs, music snobs, book snobs, I don’t know...taxidermy snobs? Doesn’t matter. If you have an esoteric hobby or interest, wave that freak flag and be a snob about it.

Unlike taste, which is too ethereal, snobbery is of the earth. It takes work to assimilate into a subculture, niche, or genre that for some reason resonated with your soul. It’s a fixation. It’s the thing you aspire to be or know about so you invest time into it. You’ll inevitably fail and look like an idiot a few times on your journey to being a snob. But that’s the point! There are no shortcuts to true snobbery - experiment, fail, learn something, repeat. That kind of obsession is the foundation of actually being cool.

Snobs also carry some earned attitude, which is important. I’m not advocating for people to be complete assholes, but maybe just a little? If I’m blowing smoke, call me on it. We’re all adults and can handle a little tough love. Look, maybe I’m just speaking for myself, but I genuinely know so little so please, educate me, tell me all the weird things you know and how and why you know them. Maybe I’ll want to become a snob myself.

I know snobs get a bad rap, but the real problem is how people present their snobbishness. There are good ways and bad ways to be a snob, so we should establish some guidelines.

First, a good snob knows the difference between having standards and knowing when to impose them. Not everything needs to be highbrow all the time. Sometimes trash is good for the soul.

Good snobbery also knows that expensive does not equal quality. A proper snob can see through sloppy class cosplay because they’ve actually put in some effort. For example, a good food snob knows a Michelin star means very little. Well, it means you’ll pay for it, but it has almost no bearing on your post-meal happiness.

A good snob doesn’t make well-meaning non-snobs feel like total shit. It is in fact possible to be a snob while also not being an asshole to the undeserving. I promise.

However, and this is a big one, shame is the prerogative of the snob. There are too many people confidently wrong about things they don’t actually know about. It’s an epidemic and somebody needs to say something. Shame is an important part of society and we need to bring it back. This might be the snob’s true calling.

The best part about having snobs around is you get to ask them for advice. I mean sure you’ll sit through a lecture, but at least you’ll end up at a good pub. Hypothetically, of course. So yes, bring back the snobs, the obsessors, the folks who know what the rest of us do not. Better yet, be a snob yourself. We’ll be better off for it.

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I couldn’t say no. Who could? You’re invited to go drinking with a bunch of crusty Icelanders and you’re going to say no? Of course not. The sacred oath of any traveler: when invited to a party with locals, you say yes.

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How are you? I’ve been a little quiet lately. I don’t know about you, but sending out missives about traveling the world feels a tad trite when said world is in chaos. I know most of you probably don’t subscribe for talk of politics. But there’s a real likelihood that as you’re swiping or scrolling your way through your inbox or social media of choice, you’ll come across some images that I’ve taken or words I’ve written, and the very next swipe is news that a U.S. missile struck an Iranian school and killed 165 children. That’s a jarring sentence, right? It’s equally so in the feed. Or is it? It’s all content these days, baby, two spectacles just a swipe apart. Both reduced to the same real estate on a glossy screen. Both demanding the same gravity in your mind. Both vying for the same scraps of attention. Both with little heart buttons asking for validation.

It’s crazy…no...deranged? Surreal? Dissonant? I don’t know if there’s a word that can truly articulate the absurdity of the moment. But as someone who creates things and puts them out into the void, I’ve been struggling to rationalize my voice and place in any of this. I’m sure some of you have been feeling the same.

Anyway, it was my birthday a few days ago. Yes, thank you, thank you. Turning 30 didn’t faze me; I even found some freedom in it. But now that I’m a year out from having to check the 35-44 box, I’ll admit that the existential dread does feel a little closer. Each birthday over thirty feels increasingly introspective. I think it’s the combination of time, distance, and fewer fucks given that opens the mind up to ruminating on past traumas or life events with more objectivity.

Birthdays make you do one of two things - try to extract meaning from the chaos, or catalog your complaints. I’ve tried the first one. It doesn’t work. And honestly, this year is turning out to be such a shit show and I was searching for something more cathartic. Instead, I thought I’d share 34 gripes or aspects about our world that annoy me, one for every year of my life. Yeah, that’s right, as a younger millennial who is forced to endure a generationally defining disaster every four years, I think it’s my right to complain about the nuisances of living in 2026.

These gripes are in no particular order, but grouped, if only to spare you the whiplash.

// Petty Grievances

• People who play music on hiking trails.

• People who stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Or grocery store aisle. Or escalator.

• People not using headphones in public. I don’t want to hear whatever stupid reel your friend sent you.

• Loose wall outlets are the absolute worst.

• Calling another adult male “buddy” or any awkward stepdad name including but not limited to: sport, kiddo, big guy, champ, tiger, pal, and slugger.

// Travel

• Why is it that whenever I’m at the airport it happens to be everyone else’s first day on earth? Move the fuck on, people.

• People who put small bags or jackets in the overhead bin.

• Rollerbags. Especially children wielding rollerbags.

• The ever-shrinking width and legroom on airplanes. Sure legroom gets all the attention, but spare a moment for the shoulders.

• Kids at airport lounges. Sorry big guy, adults only.

• Car headlights that are too goddamn bright. As president, stopping that shit would be in my first 100 days.

• Push to start in cars. Was turning a key just too difficult?

• Why do we have so many different apps to pay for parking?

// Food & Drink

• The fact that burgers are now over $20 - what are we even doing?

• "Elevated" versions of simple food that are worse than the original.

• When restaurants say they include a “5% service charge that is retained by the restaurant,” do I still need to tip? Do the waiters get paid a living wage? Whenever I ask, they just give an awkward shrug and non-answer. I’d like to be a good person, but why are you making it so difficult?

• QR code menus. I thought we were over this? Don’t make me take out my black box of horror when I’m trying to have a nice meal.

• Food delivery apps. Maybe an unpopular opinion, but we solved food delivery a long time ago and not every type of food should be delivered.

• N/A alcohol zealots. I get it, good for you.

• The phrase “off the beaten path” and “eat like a local.” Let me tell you, all paths are fucking beaten and the locals are eating at home.

// Technology, etc.

• Self-checkout machines or really any automated customer service. Please place your items in the bagging area.

• Anything smart house related - fridges, doors, lights - can we not just get up and turn off a light or use a key anymore?

• How shit just breaks so much easier now. Not only technology, but just about everything.

• I seriously don’t want to hear a drone, ever.

• The fact that it takes two years to get a new season of a TV show.

• Needing to have about 20 subscriptions to watch live sports.

• How A.I. is getting shoved into everything. It has its uses, but I don’t really need Gemini or whatever suggesting edits to my emails.

// Culture

• The way Americans have no chill. Whenever there is a new trend or novelty, we just beat it into submission and monetize it until the soul is gone.

• Constantly feeling like I’m getting sold something and how every aspect of our life has become purely transactional.

• The way that social media, influencers, algorithms have turned us all into narcissistic sociopaths. And how every hobby eventually becomes content.

• The oppressive duopoly of the United States’ political system that doesn’t actually want to solve anything.

• The fact that stupidity in this country is at an all-time high.

• The grindset bros. I like sleep too much to be bothered. Also maybe just get a life?

• Every ad about sports gambling and prediction markets like Polymarket and Kalshi. The fact that we can bet on if there’s going to be a nuclear war is absurd. WWIII, brought to you by DraftKings.

Honestly there’s probably about 100x more I could rattle off but I had to stop myself at some point. Need to vent? Your gripes are welcome in the comments.

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I remember her, though. I remember the kind eyes gesturing at me to take a seat. I remember the careful sculpting of the masa. I remember the rickety table where the tortilla press sits, somehow bending, but not breaking, with each forceful flattening - a true engineering feat that always amazes me. I remember hearing the spatula clanging against the steel while the fat sizzles and steam rises off the plancha. I remember the time she caught me wide-eyed, staring at the work she was doing with her cleaver, and offered me a sample. Carnaza, she said.

No, she definitely doesn’t remember me. How could she? But I remember her, how could I not?

I think, as travelers, we love to tally. There is a tendency to view places as notches on a bedpost, or magnets on a fridge for future admiration. I see it enough on social media, “100+ Countries” in a bio or post, as if that number signals their worldliness. Spend enough time in hostels and it’s the same game - have you been here, have you eaten there? That’s when I start fidgeting. I mean, I know it’s all in good fun, and of course I’m guilty. But how many faces do you remember? How many names learned? I’m always tempted to ask. Though I obviously don’t want to sound like such a jackass, so the petty thoughts stay with me.

In a way, I get it. We only have so much time and money, a return trip can be hard to justify. I have the same thoughts. Why would I spend money to see and experience something I already have? To make it worse, even 10 years later, the corporate design homogeneity doesn’t seem to be slowing down. If sameness spreads, what could returning somewhere possibly give you?

And yet there is value in the return.

The first time you visit a place, all the new sights, smells, and stimuli take control. It’s exciting, of course, there’s nothing quite like experiencing a new locale with naive eyes and an eager stomach. But it’s hard to get depth while you’re figuring out all that comes with the novelty - the transit system, customs, language, food, and unspoken rules. It’s hard to craft your own personal understanding while you’re fumbling about trying to find a few pesos in your pocket for the bus fare.

That’s where the return comes in. With a second, third, fourth time under your belt, you develop a rhythm. The artifacts of travel become second nature; the train ride from the airport is a known entity, and the transit card still has a few bucks on it. The mind starts to notice the peculiarities, the textures that are emotionally resonant to you and only you. It probably won’t be what you expect! That’s a good thing. It’s kind of the whole point.

Even better if the returns span years. The place will have changed - for better, for worse, or just different. On my last visit to the taqueria, the woman was still there slowly working the masa, just as welcoming. And so was the rickety table, as resilient as ever. But this time a little boy came over, coyly taking my order. That’s new, I thought. I’ve changed too, for whatever that’s worth - older, supposedly wiser, definitely more tired. But I still ordered the carnaza.

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A few photos from a quick jaunt to Mexico -

Prints

Reminder, paid subscribers get a free print when they sign up! Last call for these two prints below, at the end of this week they won’t be printed again.

Oaxaca, Mexico - Late Afternoons

Rome, Italy - Cathedral Reflections

The idea is to rotate through what I’m currently printing, either after a period of time or the print quantity runs out. After this week I’ll have another limited edition print ready for orders. And you can always contact me for a custom print of any of the images I share.

Talk soon,

Skylar

I’ve spent about a month in Iceland, just enough time to be familiar and have some perspective while also realizing you know nothing about anything. My first trip was in May of 2021, right as the country started easing COVID restrictions and allowing tourists back in and the Fagradalsfjall volcano was at full tilt. Truly a surreal experience. Then, last May, I returned to talk with my friend Haukur about his family’s incredible restaurant, Tjöruhúsið, up in the Westfjords. That project taught me more about Iceland and its people than I could’ve imagined, so if you’re planning a trip to Iceland I’d start there:

After my second extended bout in the country, I think I’ve learned a thing or two. Though this guide is a little different than one from Paris. Most folks aren’t going to Iceland for the food (though you can definitely find some good stuff); they’re going to take a picture in front of a really big waterfall. Or something like that. So this is not a guide per se, but rather some intel that might be useful. At the bottom, you’ll find a recommended route in the Westfjords and a map of places I’ve enjoyed and have served me well.

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As such, I’ve collected a few unglamorous guidelines and dopp kit supplies to help me walk all day, eat and drink with intention, and keep the wheels on. Plus, I’m an insufferable little baby when I get the slightest sore throat, so I’m really just looking out for anyone who has to tolerate me. Anyway, maybe these will help you too.

Quick disclaimer: my two years of pre-med technically don’t count as actual medical advice and there’s a good chance that half of this is just a placebo effect, so your mileage may vary.

// Treat sleep as a negotiation

I love sleep, but I’m terrible at it - a cursed combination. Travel and navigating time zones make it worse. It takes about a day per hour change to fully acclimate to a new time zone. On a typical 10–12 day trip, at least half of that time is spent adjusting. I’m going to be tired, that’s just how it is. If you wake up at 3 am, try not to fight it, just keep a book nearby and read for an hour until you fall back asleep. Or I’ll get my ass up for a sunrise photo walk to take advantage of the light and the empty streets. Nothing groundbreaking here, but just accepting sleep will be rough is the bit.

But you can get a little help. Daily magnesium glycinate has improved my sleep more than anything else, so it’s the first thing in the dopp kit. Melatonin comes along too, but I use it sparingly, mostly for the first night or two after a big time change, just enough to get me pointed in the right direction.

// Walk until the city makes sense

Walking is how the body catches up. By far the most important thing you can do to keep yourself sane is to walk. Then walk some more. And walk more after that. Better yet, members can try out Meander and walk the whole damn city - it randomizes routes so you wander new neighborhoods instead of retracing the same streets.

About to eat your weight in fish at an omakase joint two miles away? Walk there. Walking should be the default transportation mode. It’s also how you’ll get to know all the textures of a city and find threads you want to pull at. Or, at the very least, stumble across something you never would have otherwise.

// Ease into the first 48 hours

Most trips are lost in the first few days. Pace yourself early and the rest usually takes care of itself. Rush it, and you’ll spend the back half of the trip recovering instead of paying attention. Maybe don’t order that second bottle of wine on the first night. There’s plenty of time for that.

// Assume you’ll get sick

Outside of sleep and movement, I keep a bring some daily supplements to boost my immune system around the edges. Magnesium is already doing double duty for sleep and immunity. The rest fall somewhere between insurance and superstition.

I’ve been taking Wellness Formula for a while, and I’m honestly not sure where and why I started. At this point, I’m a believer and feel it provides a baseline level of protection - placebo or not, I’ll take it. I also take NAC (N-Acetylcysteine), which has some interesting data behind it, and anecdotally it’s kept the severity of bugs short-lived; the last few times I felt a scratch in my throat, it disappeared within 24 hours. Vitamin D and omega-3s round things out. I’m also a proponent of the hot toddy when I feel symptoms come on, which has absolutely no scientific backing other than your old nana saying it works - though do you even need more evidence?

Food-borne bugs are inevitable, especially if you’re really going for it. For obvious reasons, I like to nod to this study showing a (very) small relationship between consuming alcohol while eating from dubious food sources and fewer incidents of food poisoning. Do with that what you will. Otherwise, keep some Imodium in your pack for emergencies. If I’m gone for a long period of time, antibiotics are tucked away like a ripcord ready to pull. Unfortunately, I’ve had to use those a few times for some really gnarly bugs.

What can I say, this is the kind of hard-fought wisdom you get when you’re over 30. You’ll still get your ass kicked now and then. That’s part of it. The goal isn’t to avoid the wear and tear, but to stay in the game. These tenets have served me well and in them there’s a particular kind of confidence in knowing you can ruin your sleep, eat questionably, drink with intention, and still wake up mostly fine.

Good luck out there.

Skylar

Thanks for reading! If you like what you see and read, think about buying me a beer (or sip of poitín) by becoming a paid subscriber ($7/Month, $70/Year).

Other than my undying love and gratitude, here’s what you get:

• A free print from my shop

• City guides and recommendations (like this one from Paris)

• Beta access to a tool I’m building for exploring new cities

More importantly your support helps me invest in the storytelling and projects at the core of this thing, like this interview below with Pádraic from Micil Distillery, as well as other projects such as: Feasting at the Edge of the World, The Morning Tipple, In Bogotá, Prudencia makes its own rules, Walking the Yorkshire Moors, Raicilleros, Philosopher Kings, and others in the archives.

So what do you think? Want to join the team?

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I can be classy. I can, on occasion, appreciate some pageantry.

I enjoy a martini with gin macerated in oyster shells and seaweed for six months. I also enjoy my garnishing herbs firmly spanked and my ice perfectly clear. I’ll even suspend disbelief long enough to use a payphone to enter a speakeasy. Who doesn’t appreciate the occasional whimsy?

But, in my ripe old age of --checks date-- 33, simplicity has its appeal. The things that just work. The things that don’t give me any fuss.

You see, two weeks in and 2026 is already an absolute fucking dumpster fire. The jester despot and his smooth-brained minions are set on unleashing unconstitutional cruelty. The cost of living is absurd. The economy is teetering on a handful of tech companies trading the same dollars back and forth. War is imminent. Social media has made everyone a performative lunatic. A.I. has only made it all worse.

What I mean is, the world is a very fussy place right now. So I’ve decided to reduce the fuss anywhere I can, including my tipples. That $25 artisanal martini doesn’t rate well on the Grog Index, and I can’t really be bothered by a drink with more than three ingredients right now. No, give me a shot and a beer.

Some call it a boilermaker. But that sounds like a cocktail, and once something has a name it starts asking questions you didn’t want answered. This is an anti-fuss beverage, so it’s a shot and a beer for me.

That’s important, because the shot and a beer is a universal language. Wherever you go, you’ll see some local variant of it. And it’s almost always a safe order, especially if you find yourself in a scruffy bar in an unfamiliar part of town. Are you going to order an espresso martini at the dive bar where nobody speaks your language? Don’t be ridiculous. Ordering a shot and a beer with confidence will set you on a good path.

It’s a humble drink, but that doesn’t mean you have to drink bottom-shelf whiskey and PBR. You can travel the world with these two, even at home. Your passport is probably going to be useless in a few months anyway, so you might as well get used to armchair travel. Take a trip to Scotland with a dram of something peaty and a pint of mild. Venture to Mexico with a nip of madrecuishe mezcal and a bottle of Sugoi from Monstruo de Agua. Or, on a cold winter night, warm sake and an Asahi will do just fine. The possibilities are endless.

And to be clear, you’re not dropping the shot in the beer or taking the shot straight and using the beer as a chaser. Calm down, it’s not a race. It’s small, alternating sips, taken casually until the warmth embraces you.

If you don’t believe me about its appeal, just check out the New York Times recipe for a shot and a beer. The reviews are particularly encouraging, like this one from Bethy:

Made this as written. The kids loved it! So simple and perfect for weeknights when we’ve got soccer practice. Will definitely be going into our weekly rotation!!!!

or even this one from Movecrafter:

This is a great recipe. I have experimented with several variations, but as written it’s sure to please. I enjoy setting the shot next to the beer just before drinking. Make sure not to mix up the ingredients, as drinking a pint of whiskey is likely to be more intoxicating than a pint of beer. You can also double the recipe by using two beers and two shots if you are entertaining.

Just don’t be like Eric, who found out that not all substitutions work well:

This was pretty terrible. I didn’t have beer so I substituted apple juice and I didn’t have whiskey so I just used some Shaoxing cooking wine. I did add a maraschino cherry to try to liven things up, but that didn’t help at all.

Anyway, if the world insists on getting louder, crueler, and more complicated by the day, then at least my drink doesn’t have to.

Skylar

Thanks for reading The Daily Grog! If you like what you see and read, think about buying me a beer by becoming a paid subscriber ($7/Month, $70/Year).

Other than my undying love and gratitude, here’s what you get:

• A free print from my shop

• City guides and recommendations (like this one from Paris)

• Access to Meander, a tool I’m building to help you get lost in a new city

More importantly your support helps me invest in the storytelling and projects at the core of this thing, such as: Feasting at the Edge of the World, The Morning Tipple, In Bogotá, Prudencia makes its own rules, Walking the Yorkshire Moors, Raicilleros, Philosopher Kings, and others in the archives.

So what do you think? Want to join the team?

Subscribe now

Welcome to The Daily Grog! If you like what you see and read, think about buying me a beer (or sip of poitín) by becoming a paid subscriber ($7/Month, $70/Year).

Other than my undying love and gratitude, here’s what you get:

• A free print from my shop

• City guides and recommendations (like this one from Paris)

• Beta access to a tool I’m building for exploring new cities

More importantly your support helps me invest in the storytelling and projects at the core of this thing, like this interview below with Pádraic from Micil Distillery, as well as other projects such as: Feasting at the Edge of the World, The Morning Tipple, In Bogotá, Prudencia makes its own rules, Walking the Yorkshire Moors, Raicilleros, Philosopher Kings, and others in the archives.

So what do you think? Want to join the team?

Subscribe now

Friends -

You know Jameson and Guinness. Hell, you’ve probably even tried to split the G by now. But do you know poitín? Probably not, which is a shame because I’d argue that poitín, not Irish whiskey or even Guinness, best captures Ireland’s soul. Its small pots over big industry, craft rooted in the Irish-language, and a stubborn, communal resilience shaped under imperial law.

A few weeks ago I saw that the new season of Eugene Levy’s travel show, The Reluctant Traveler, takes a trip to Ireland. During his visit, Eugene meets up with Pádraic Ó Griallais from Micil Distillery to try some poitín, the lesser known Irish spirit often referred to as “Irish moonshine.” I was excited to see poitín get some time in the spotlight because it’s a really fascinating spirit with an equally interesting story full of wars, smuggling, bogs, and good booze.

The first time I tried poitín I had to hide my reaction as I choked it back. I remember it was strong as hell, but of course I could handle it, I was a man. In reality I was 26 or so and armed with the idea of taste but not taste itself. But the story of poitín was intoxicating enough to keep me drinking it. Fast forward a few years and it goes down a little easier now, though I have a couple of grey hairs coming for me and my liver is sufficiently grizzled. Of course, it doesn’t hurt having one of the best distillers in Ireland pour you a few drams.

Last year on my annual Thanksgiving trip, I also interviewed Pádraic (sadly without the camera crew) who was kind enough to spare an hour or so to talk about poitín, Ireland, and a little bit of everything. Though poitín has been around since the 14th century, it had been illegal to distill in Ireland for over 300 years until 1997. In 2016, Pádraic and his brother Jimín opened Micil Distillery to share their generational knowledge and craft to revive the lost story of poitín. Since then, they’ve gone on to win awards for their poitín, gin, and Irish whiskey, establishing themselves as one of the best craft distilleries in Ireland.

Below is a transcript of our conversation, lightly edited for clarity, length, and organized into sections:

• On Opening a Distillery

• On Poitín

• On Language

• On Ireland

• On Pubs

• On Irish Whiskey

• On Politics

On Opening a Distillery

Skylar: When I started looking into poitín and the story behind it, I came across Micil a few years back. You were one of the first to start distilling it again - you started this in 2016, is that right?

Pádraic: Correct, yeah, so the process started long before that. I would have been working in education and left that in 2015, and a very enjoyable career. But my sights were set on a family legacy, which was distilling poitín. It was a considered jump, it wasn’t just like one morning that I woke up and thought, oh, I’m going to make poitín legally - it was fairly carefully planned. No amount of planning anyway would prepare you for big steps like that. It’s been a journey.

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Welcome to The Daily Grog! If you like what you see and read, think about buying me a beer once a month by becoming a paid subscriber ($7/Month, $70/Year).

Paid subscribers to The Daily Grog get a free print from my shop, my city guides, access to my meander app, and other paid posts.

More importantly, your support helps me fund stories and projects at the core of this thing like Feasting at the Edge of the World, The Morning Tipple, In Bogotá, Prudencia makes its own rules, Walking the Yorkshire Moors, Raicilleros, Philosopher Kings, and others in the archives.

So what do you think? Want to join the team?

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Friends -

I genuinely wish I was a morning person. Or maybe the kind of person that can function on six hours of sleep. Are they the same person? Seems like it, at least. In any case, I envy their resolve.

Unfortunately, I prefer the kind of solitude you find in the evenings, and if I had my druthers, I could sleep for at least 12 hours each night. It’s a gnarly combination, let me tell you. But this is how you can be sure I’ll never become a productivity influencer or anything of the sort. At least not until the manosphere (or whatever) invents a new life hack called “drinking a beer with friends.” Anyway, there are the rare occasions where I find the strength, nay, the courage, to wake up and get my ass out of bed before others. One of those moments happened a few weeks ago in Takayama, Japan.

We were in Takayama during a quiet period, after the fall colors had come and gone but before winter had arrived. The forecast during our stay told rumors of some snow but for the first two days only the dampness of autumn was to be found. We asked around about the Shinhotaka Ropeway, or maybe even venturing to Shirakawa-go, but there was trepidation in the responses, alluding to a potential storm coming. It’s a funny thing, when the locals know something you don’t.

Eventually, after an evening of impromptu karaoke, the flurries started in the quiet of the night.

The next morning, after some restless sleep, I found myself staring out the window from my tatami mat to about a foot of snow blanketing the ground. I argued with myself for a few minutes, but knowing that I wouldn’t get any more useful sleep, I forced myself up and outside take in the town before the crowds.

There were a few people out and about already; some shoveling snow and clearing the roads, a few undeterred children on their way to school, other morning people out for a stroll, and local news covering the first snow of the season. One camera crew asked for an interview, so if you happen to be from Takayama and saw my bumbling mug on your morning news, my apologies.

But other than that, it was mostly my own two feet that were puttering around for the morning. It was lovely solitude and reaffirmed my morning person envy. Maybe one day.

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Reading / Watching / Listening

Print is Forever, Cydney Hayes, Gazateer - I’m a big fan of all the print projects coming out lately.

“The value of print is actually not about paper. It's about the set of demands and offerings that that paper has,” Sloan posited. “Privacy, stability, reliability, sovereignty.”

Maybe I’ll just start handwriting all of these missives and sending them through snail mail. Any other interesting print projects out there that you all know about?

Two Nights Playing With Fire At Patrick Mahomes And Travis Kelce’s Steakhouse, Liz Cook, Defector - This is fun to just hate read if nothing else. But it’s also not really surprising and just captures where we’re at with restaurants these days - maximalist indulgence. Oh you like truffles? Oh how about some wagyu? How about we give you wagyu wrapped truffle fat washed martini?!?

But most bars don’t come with a “Martini Cart Experience.” The first part of the Experience is using a checklist and a golf pencil to select your ideal spirits, vermouths, and enhancements, whether that’s truffle brine (an additional $5), caviar-stuffed olives (an extra $12) or an accompanying “caviar bump” ($21)

….

The Experience concluded with a bartender scanning my checklist, building the martini, shaking it (you read that correctly), and straining it into a glass that had been chilled by a light-up contraption resembling a Simon. With the upcharge for the truffle brine, the martini was $38.

The Airport Lounge Wars, Zach Helfand, The New Yorker - A wild read. I must admit to being a card carrying member of the airport lounge group. But I swear I went before they were cool! Or just starting to be cool, at least. Anyway, I still think there is some value to them, but the hype has become pretty ridiculous.

Queuers would rather sit on the floor than skip the lounge for a chair at the gate, a desperation that might have something to do with Instagram envy, inequality, or an overabundance of premium-economy professionals with business-class expectations.

On Synchronicity, Lisa Abend, The Unplugged Traveler - A beautiful read. I love the idea of synchronicity and those small moments that feel so emotionally resonant.

Instead, they feel like a reminder that there is something out there larger than ourselves. Some mysterious and consoling connection, if only we stay open to it.

From the Print Shop

Westfjords, Iceland - Puffin Under the Midnight Sun

I’m doing some printing this week so if you want a print order soon, I should have it shipped out in a few days.

Skylar

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Why are you here? A question usually asked with earnestness and intrigue, often disguised by suspicion and a subtle squint of the eye. They’re also the four most reassuring words I hear on the road.

Whenever someone questions my presence, there’s a self-serving part of me that grins inside, knowing that somewhere along the road I made a choice that few others make. Not in the overly trite “off the beaten path” kind of way you’ll find in Travel & Leisure or whatever influencer tells you, but actually out there taking the long way.

More than validating my own ego, those words are an entry point, a door slightly ajar, a signal that someone is open to conversation. Whoever asked that is probably as curious as I am and eager to understand who else is walking around on this planet. In a world that feels increasingly devoid of humanity, this is a good thing.

So I engage and ask some questions back. More often than not they’re probably stupid questions, but the substance is beside the point. Occasionally I’ll make a friend. Or maybe a drinking buddy for the night and a good story. It’s not always in English either. Sometimes it’s hand gesturing and passing Google Translate back and forth for the night. Isn’t that what it’s all about, a small connection with a human from the other side of the world? To me, those textures are why we even venture out in the first place.

I’ve been thinking about those moments, the why are you here moments, as a possible charter for how we plan and think about the year ahead. Maybe seeking those out can bring the magic and sense of adventure back into our travels. So what makes them happen and how can we get more? In all the times I’ve been asked that question, there are a few common threads.

Get out of the city. Few people in Tokyo are asking why you’re there. Ramen, sushi, konbini egg-salad sandwiches - yeah, yeah they get it. Cities are busy and stressful, and their residents are under the same pressures we all are - too little time, not enough money - and frankly don’t care about why you’re there. It’s not a slight, it’s just life. Not to mention they’ve probably had more negative tourist encounters than positive ones.

The remedy is getting into the countryside. I like the Five Hour Rule from David Coggins as a starting point. I also think choosing places that require at least two modes of transportation is a good rule of thumb. Plane only? Too easy. Plane + train? Better. Plane + train + bus? Excellent. Or hell just walk from town to town and stay the night at some pubs. Obviously there’s no hard and fast rule, but effort acts as a filter. Putting in a little more creativity and legwork will get you somewhere that 90% of foreigners won’t even try.

Go when nobody else is there. Do you hate crowds? I do, and so do the people that live and work there. The shoulder season advice is well-trodden, but with the changing climate and erratic weather, I’m not even sure what the shoulder seasons mean anymore. The point is to go when nobody else is even thinking about it. Iceland in January? It’ll be damn cold but I guarantee if you show up to a bar in a small town you’ll be drinking brennivín with some characters in no time. When it’s quiet out and people have a moment to breathe, the folks you do meet will be far more likely to engage.

Trust the drift. Walk into the dodgy corner bar. Get off at a random metro or bus stop. Did you stumble across a weird esoteric museum? Ticket, please! Stay off the “best of” lists for at least 50% of your meals and experiences. By definition, anything widely shared online is optimized for average taste. Let’s aspire to more than average.

I love to eat well and will seek out culinary fulfillment wherever I go. But I also don’t like surrounding myself with people taking pictures of their food, which dominates the room at any spot that’s on the 50 Best, Michelin guide, or whatever. Also, why do we even care anyway? It’s okay to plan one or two meals from trusted sources that you’re excited about. After that, arming yourself with the basics - local specialty, seasonal produce, what to notice - will go a long way. If you walk by a spot that looks interesting, pop your head in and see if they have a table while you’re there. Yeah, you might have a bad meal. But you could end up with a great story.

Linger around. Stay somewhere for more than three nights. Find a coffee shop or bar and show up a few times during your stay. Slower, more intentional is the way forward. And repetition builds familiarity and trust.

Anyway, take what you will from these scribblings on your travels for the upcoming year. In my experience, the why are you here moments tend to arrive when you choose friction over convenience. Curiosity over consensus. Humans over machines. Those principles are going to matter more than ever, so they’re what we should strive for in the new year.

Onward to 2026! Happy new year, folks.

Skylar

Welcome to The Daily Grog! If you like what you see and read, think about buying me a beer once a month by becoming a paid subscriber ($7/Month, $70/Year).

Paid subscribers to The Daily Grog get a free print from my shop, my city guides, access to my meander app, and other paid posts.

More importantly, your support helps me fund stories and projects at the core of this thing like Feasting at the Edge of the World, The Morning Tipple, In Bogotá, Prudencia makes its own rules, Walking the Yorkshire Moors, Raicilleros, Philosopher Kings, and others in the archives.

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Friends -

Is it just me or does it feel like everyone was in Japan this fall? Or was it just my timeline? My algorithm, my overseers, my personalized invisible hands that nudge me along. It kind of feels like back in the early 2010s, when WOW Airlines (R.I.P.) was shipping people to Iceland for $5 a seat and the feed was exclusively moody black sand beaches.

There’s something about the algorithms (all of ‘em) that feel particularly reactive right now. I book one flight to Tokyo and all of a sudden the timeline is filled with Japan content. Or was my timeline filled with Japan content and then I booked the flight to Tokyo? Do we even have free will? Who’s to say, but probably less than you think.

All of that to say, I was also in Japan. I’ve written about my Thanksgiving tradition before, a ritual that usually takes me to Europe this time of year. I think I’m the minority on this but I revel in the dark, damp, and grim weather you get around now. This year though, we opted for something different. Last week I brought you into a small karaoke snack bar in Takayama. This week, a bit of a departure in form and tenor with a few scribblings and half-baked thoughts from my notepad during my first trip to Japan. With some photos, of course.

Don’t expect anything insightful, I’m just trying to make it through this year too ya know? Anyway, this is likely my last email until after Christmas, so I hope you all have some restful time with friends and family.

Skylar

Notes from Japan

It’s such a refreshing novelty to just step outside your door and flag down a taxi within seconds. It just feels right - more dignified? tactile? - than using Uber. As someone who grew up as Ubers entered our cities and allowed my drunk ass to tap a few buttons on my phone and get across the city and into bed for $8, I appreciated their utility. But as the VC money has dried up, so has their appeal.

Taxis in Japan feel like a formalized extension of the public transit system, not an after thought or replacement. Obviously taxis are still more expensive and the metro system is incredible but if you’re traveling with a group, hailing a cab can be worth it in a pinch. Plus, a random taxi in Japan feels like a black car experience compared to what you get in the States.

It’s hard to underestimate how infuriatingly convenient it is to use the same transit card, like Suica, across multiple cities and regions. What a luxury, truly. I can’t even drive two hours without having to download a new app to pay for street parking in Washington. I know traveling to Japan and subsequently complaining about U.S. infrastructure is a rite of passage, but sometimes you just can’t help it.

One mistake we made was picking an early train departure and having to get to Tokyo Station during rush hour. Don’t do that.

Below is a depiction of the Tokyo metro system during rush hour, in four acts:

The konbini (7-Eleven, Lawson, etc.) are nice to have around and entertaining as a tourist. Though they sell dress shirts and I’m not so sure that’s a great indicator of broader societal well-being. In what situation would I be so hard pressed that I’d need to buy a dress shirt from 7-Eleven? Probably not a good one.

Speaking of konbini, if you plan on having a long night out with a few drinks, find one of these at 7-Eleven before and thank me after.

I’m all in on the Japanese listening bar bandwagon. They just might be the proper form of a bar. Probably up there with pubs on the Mount Rushmore of drinking spaces. They offer a quiet space to listen to carefully curated music, with dim lighting, hushed conversations, and a simple drink menu. And there’s typically a distinct perspective from the proprietor, which makes them feel intimate and not forced.

There are a few in the U.S. now, including one in Seattle, but I have some doubts about our (Americans’) ability to execute on these because 1) we’re loud and obnoxious, 2) any time we import whatever is trendy, we have a way of making it 10x more pretentious than it needs to be.

Smoking inside is fun.

Japan is the kind of place that is full of so many secrets - restaurants, bars, know-how, villages, etc. that us foreigners will never know. This is good. And important.

I weirdly enjoyed seeing the ubiquitous vending machines throughout Tokyo and Osaka at night. They felt like these eerie obelisks lighting your journey home.

You should probably budget an extra 10 minutes to get to that reservation. Chances are you’ll spend a few minutes in a stairwell trying to figure out which one of these signs is your restaurant.

The car-game in Japan is incredible. When’s the last time you’ve seen a 2000GT driving around?

And the Toyota Century might be peak elegance.

I think Japan really missed a soft-power opportunity by not pushing their toilets to every corner of the planet. There’s no reason every bathroom built in the past 25 years shouldn’t be equipped with these bad boys. Imagine never having to sit on a cold toilet seat again…

…speaking of toilets, there are some real, uh, challenges when traveling to Japan. Since your diet as a tourist is going to consist of sushi, ramen, tonkatsu, and tempura, please plan accordingly. I’ll stop there.

The coffee shops in Japan are sublime. Everything is a pour-over and the quality of the beans and roasts make for some of the best cups on the planet. And while I do appreciate the craft and attention to the coffee brewing details, sometimes I’d just like a simple batch brew. But that’s the Seattleite in me speaking.

There is so much depth to sake, far more than I realized, and I think finding a brewer will be the subject of a project in the next few months.

Visiting smaller towns, not just in Japan but everywhere, is consistently the best way to see the different wrinkles and textures a place can offer. There’s just far more intimacy, something the world sorely needs right now.

More from Takayama soon.

Apologies for being a little quiet lately. I was in Japan for the past 12 days and since it was my first time in the country, hell, my first time in that part of the world, I wanted to be fully immersed. So my publishing schedule is a little off, but I have an immense amount of stories and photos from my trip that I’m eager to get into. For now I wanted to share a journal entry and a small vignette from a night in the mountains.

Skylar

12/02/2025 - Takayama, Japan

I wish I could tell you her name. It’s my only regret from that night. Well, I also wish my rendition of Mr. Brightside was a little more on key, but I’ve been living with these pipes for 33 years so I’ve come to accept my limitations.

We were in Takayama, a small town in the mountains of central Japan. With a few hours to kill before our dinner reservation that night, we were on the hunt for some drinks to whet the appetite and warm the soul. It was no easy task because my only qualm with Japan, after five days in the country, was that the bars don’t open early enough.

We walked by a few bars, all shuttered for another hour or so. But next to one, there was promise. A dim light was glowing through the noren hanging in the doorway and some chatter coming from inside. A sign outside caught our eye, so we opened the translation app to see what it said. It was open, and apparently there was beer - good enough for us. It also translated something to the effect of “you sing,” which was curious but we didn’t think much of it.

We pushed through the noren and into a thin blue haze of cigarette smoke. Three women leaned at the bar talking, drinking, dragging on their cigarettes. The walls wore old tapestries and sun-faded posters, the kind of dive décor that looks like it’s been around for decades. The bar itself was thick, worn wood, crowded with little jars and bottles and containers full of mysterious substances. Behind them, a line of Suntory whisky bottles stood in uneven ranks, each a different measure of gone.

The woman behind the counter lit up when she saw us, waving us in as her friends tapped their ash. We lingered for a beat, disoriented by the intimacy of it all, then squeezed into the narrow space and took our seats.

Once we were seated, mama-san looked at us excitedly, ready to take our order. The Suntory bottles were tempting me with a highball, but we went with four beers to make the order easy. She grabbed some glasses and shuffled over to the tap, but after two pours the keg had kicked. She reached under the counter and pulled out a tall bottle of Asahi, opened it, and poured it into the remaining two. Thank you very much! she said with excitement, handing us the beer and toasting with a glass of her own. Kanpai!

We tried to make small talk with her and her friends by passing our phones’ translation back and forth. But mama-san kept talking to us at full tilt, as if we spoke fluent Japanese. All we could offer were smiles and polite laughs between sips of beer. Every few seconds she’d exclaim Thank you very much! with a smile and some hand gesturing, even if it wasn’t warranted. Eventually she tried to apologize, saying she only knew how to say “Thank you very much” and “I love you.” Maybe there was a story in there, I wondered, but didn’t ask.

But within a few minutes, I heard the word takoyaki, one of the few I recognized throughout the night. She reached below the bar and brought out a plate full of doughy octopus balls covered in plastic wrap. Straight into the microwave it went, plastic wrap and all. It was good actually, the takoyaki, better than some we had in Tokyo or Osaka even. Thank you very much! she said as we smiled and nodded with enjoyment.

It didn’t stop there. Another treat appeared out from behind the bar, this time candied sardines and other small fish in a plastic container. I choked one down, trying to be polite. It wasn’t that bad, but I wasn’t eager to reach for another. Then sukiyaki, she said, looking briefly our way then turning the gas burner on beneath a menacing iron pot in the corner. It took a few tries, but we politely declined trying to explain that we were eating dinner soon.

She scurried to the other side of the bar, disappearing for a few minutes, coming back with an old-school tabletop karaoke machine and set it in front of our group. The entire screen was in Japanese, of course, but in the bottom left corner was a button to view the “English Songs.” We looked at each other nervously, the “you sing” translation outside the bar suddenly made more sense.

She sensed our hesitation and put the machine in front of one of her friends instead, who queued up a soulful Japanese ballad. Her voice was soft and kind and something told me this wasn’t her first time. Promptly after her song ended, the karaoke machine ended up back in front of our group.

Decision time. Between the four of us, it was the girls’ turn for a duet. Money, Money, Money by ABBA was the choice. Within seconds, the old TV hanging in the corner of the room prepared the lyrics. There are a few defining moments in karaoke: the confidence you have when you pick a song, the dread you feel when you realize that you in fact do not know the song, and the exasperation of wondering when the fuck will this song ever end. Our friends clapped and danced along anyway, cheerfully off-beat.

Then the machine and the microphone landed in front of me. I scrolled through a few choices, eventually landing on Mr. Brightside by The Killers. Maybe not the ideal audience for a mid-aughts sing-along, but hey I’ve spent enough time singing this in the car that I was pretty confident in my ability to muscle through it. Halfway through the first chorus, ever the cheerleader, our new friend brought out a maraca from somewhere behind the bar to join in.

Thank you very much! I love you! Thank you very much! mama-san said repeatedly as she walked us out of the little snack bar and into the cold mountain air, waving and bidding us a good night.