Telluride, Colorado: Mining My Soul

In the heart of the mountains, roughly two hours from Aspen, lies a magical town called Telluride. In the winter, the valley is wrapped in snow, ski lifts climbing into the peaks, and the whole place feels like a snow globe. But in the summer, in my unofficial opinion, Telluride is even more beautiful.

We arrived after traveling from the east side of Colorado, making a quick stop in Denver. I had never truly explored the mountainous region of the state—most times, I’d chosen the quicker southern route. But this time, my husband decided we needed an adventure. As we descended the winding mountain road, we saw it: a waterfall spilling down from the mountains behind the town, its water feeding the little river that runs through the center of Telluride.

The buildings felt like stepping back in time. Once a thriving mining town, Telluride still has remnants of its past—old mine structures standing silent on the hillsides, while grand mansion-like homes perch near cascading waterfalls. Walking along the trail that winds through the heart of town, I noticed something unexpected: groups of children, anywhere from eight to fifteen years old, running together on the trails, playing in the fields, or laughing downtown—and not a single one of them glued to a phone. It was like a flashback to my own childhood, when it was still safe to stay outside until the sun set.

At one point, my husband and I stopped along a quiet bend in the stream. We slipped off our shoes and dipped our feet into the water—still cool from the snowcapped mountains above. I wanted to cup my hand, lift it to my lips, and taste it, just to prove its purity. The water felt alive, ancient, unspoiled. There was something primal and beautiful about this town. Old mills and weathered windmills still stood on the outskirts, reminders of another time. Stables dotted the land, and animals roamed freely through open fields. At the center of it all was a baseball diamond surrounded by wildflowers, the scent of summer in the mountains heavy in the air.

And everywhere—families. Families laughing together, watching their children play, sharing meals and conversations face-to-face, as if the modern world hadn’t yet intruded. In their presence, I felt an unbridled passion rise in me, a longing for connection unmediated by screens or noise. So much of Telluride felt suspended in the past, preserved in a way that made me ache with yearning.

Streets are lined with houses dating back to the 1800s, lovingly updated with modern comforts. At the center of town, restaurants and breweries use the region’s pure, clear water to give their flavors an edge. And then there are the festivals—music, art, and celebration woven into the fabric of the place. We just barely missed one, but you could feel the lingering energy in the air.

Telluride is more than a mountain town. It’s a living story—part history, part adventure, part dream.

The Walls of Ajalpan

You can’t help but see history when you walk the streets of Ajalpan, Mexico. It’s literally ingrained into every home and every wall. Unlike in the United States, where new structures rise daily, here in Mexico people build around or add to what already exists—because the old structures are that strong. The city itself has stood for centuries, older than my mother’s mother’s mother. Like most Mexican towns, Ajalpan is rich in history, architecture, and wall art.

We took a walk through this town, just an hour from the Oaxaca state border and about two hours from Veracruz. It’s surrounded by mountains and semi-arid desert dotted with vegetation. At the heart of the city stands a grand historical church, a landmark that has anchored the community for generations. Most of the people here are Indigenous, their families rooted in this land for centuries, shaping a close-knit community where traditions run deep.

When we arrived, my family drew curious stares. To my knowledge, they weren’t unkind, just inquisitive—because we don’t quite “fit in.” Even though Veracruz is nearby, you don’t see many people of African descent passing through these parts. My husband, though a native Spanish speaker, stands out too. He is of Indigenous descent from Chile, but his Castilian accent and phrasing reveal his background immediately. My children resemble some of the Afro-Mexican families of Veracruz, yet their accents mark them as outsiders as well. In a way, while we were learning about the city, the city was also learning about us.

And everywhere we turned, the wall art seemed to speak. Like in so many Mexican cities, it is breathtaking in its intricacy. The murals here in Ajalpan weave together history, pride, and resilience. They tell stories of peoples who lived and thrived here long before this land was called Mexico. Each home feels layered with generations of architecture, each wall another canvas carrying forward memory and meaning. Families live in houses their ancestors built, and perhaps that’s why you don’t see as many new homes rising here the way you do in the United States. These structures were built to last—and with them, the culture endures.

I am a Mexican Resident!

Becoming a resident of Mexico has been a dream realized. The art, the beauty, and the soul of this country truly have my heart. I’m grateful not only to witness the culture but to now be a participant in it.

Over the past months in Mexico, I’ve experienced the warmth and generosity that seem woven into the fabric of everyday life. These photos are from my new hometown—Taxco de Alarcón, Guerrero—an enchanting city known for its silver artistry, colonial charm, and breathtaking views.

One of Taxco’s crown jewels is the Santa Prisca Church, a baroque masterpiece built in the 18th century. Its intricate pink stone façade and twin bell towers rise above the city, while the interior glitters with gilded altars, hand-painted ceilings, and sacred art. It is both a place of worship and a living monument to the city’s rich history.

I look forward to many years of splitting my time between the U.S. and Mexico, exploring this vast land that holds every kind of terrain—from deserts to jungles, mountains to beaches. The history is unparalleled, and the food and traditions speak directly to the spirit and to love.

How I travel but still feed my soul

“Comfort shouldn’t isolate you from experience. And soul travel doesn’t have to break your budget.”

Let me start by saying: I am a passenger princess… and a queen. I love to travel in style. Always have. But when my six-figure salary became a memory, my six-figure lifestyle had to shift too—and that meant learning to travel differently, more intentionally, and yes, more humbly.

I was a single mother for most of my life. I’ve always chased the road when my soul needed a break. Sometimes I planned, sometimes I didn’t. I’d toss the kids in the car, call up a friend, and just go. Sometimes I spent more than I should have. Sometimes I traveled cheap. But over time, I learned what truly fed me while keeping my bank account intact.

So here it is: my guide to traveling on a budget without starving your spirit.

1. Booking Affordable Flights: Think Like a Local, Not a Tourist

This is where my husband comes in—he’s the king of budget travel. Give that man $300 and he’ll book a hostel, hop a bus across a border, and come back with change.

I’m not quite that minimalist, but I’ve learned a lot. Here are the basics:

Never book direct flights unless it makes sense geographically. Instead:

• Asia? Fly out of the West Coast (L.A., San Francisco).
  
  
  

• Europe? Leave from the East Coast (NYC, Boston).
  
  
  

• South America or Mexico? Book to a major U.S. hub first, then fly down.

• Avoid peak seasons. Go before or after the rush. Weather’s still good, and prices are lower. Fewer tourists = more peace, more soul.

• Always cross-check flights on apps like Google Flights, Hopper, or Skyscanner. Set alerts. Be flexible on your dates and fly midweek if you can.

2. Skip the Tourist Traps. Eat Like the People.

Let me say this loud: Fancy restaurants aren’t feeding your spirit. They’re feeding Instagram.

When we’re in Playa del Carmen, I could easily spend $30 a plate at an “authentic” Italian or Mexican place near 5th Ave. But that’s not real Mexico. That’s America with hot sauce and a sunhat.

Instead, we eat at street food carts and small, family-run spots. We can eat as a family of three for $10. Real tacos. Real love. Real flavor. No white tablecloths needed.

And from a spiritual standpoint? Street food is intimate. It’s handmade, it’s ancestral, and it comes from someone’s home kitchen, not a corporate checklist. If you see locals lining up around the block—that’s where you eat.

3. Where to Stay: Comfort Without the Bubble

I’m not a hostel person. I have a family. I don’t need bunk beds and shared bathrooms. That said, I also don’t want to hide in a resort that isolates me from the place I’m visiting.

Airbnbs are my sweet spot. You’re embedded in a neighborhood. You hear the language, see people jogging, shopping, arguing in doorways. You live there—even if it’s just for a week.

Right now, we’re staying at an Airbnb in Playa del Carmen that’s managed by a small local company. There’s a building manager named Fernando—and let me tell you, Fernando is the plug. He’s helped us with everything from maintenance to menu tips. He told us where to find the best menudo and tacos in town—places with no Instagram, no Facebook, no marketing… just a little chalkboard menu that changes every day.

And they only serve menudo on Sundays. You want real? That’s the real.

That’s what I love about staying in Airbnbs with local connection. That’s what gets lost in hotels. A hotel is an escape. But an Airbnb, with the right kind of host, is a doorway into a living, breathing neighborhood.

4. Say Yes to the Journey, But No to Isolation

Resorts are beautiful—but they’re insular. Everything is provided, sure—but everything is also filtered.

If you want to feed your soul, don’t just seek comfort. Seek connection.

Connection to place. To people. To yourself.

Ask yourself:

• Can I walk around here?

• Do I hear the local language?

• Am I learning something, or just relaxing?

• Is this feeding my ego—or my spirit?

Final Thoughts: You Can Travel Gently, Without Breaking the Bank

Travel doesn’t have to mean luxury—but it also doesn’t have to mean struggle. It’s about finding your balance between peace and perspective. Sometimes, that means a beautiful little Airbnb and a $3 plate of tacos. Sometimes, it means skipping the Uber and taking the colectivo.

I travel on a budget now.

But I don’t travel small.

I travel big—in heart, in curiosity, in connection.

So to all my fellow queens trying to figure out how to travel while still holding onto your coins: you can do this. Just travel smart. Travel soulfully. And travel like you belong.

Because you do.

My Birthplace: My Death Place

I was born in New York.

Six years later, I left New York to live in South Carolina.

I moved back 30 years later.

New York had my heart.

I’ve always had a complex relationship with New York City. When I was younger, I remember walking along dirty streets paved in old, discarded black gum and smelling both new and rotting fruit fermenting in the summer sun as I held my grandmother’s hand and stepped into the corner grocery store.

Back then, kids were still sent on errands to buy cigarettes. Unlike minors buying smokes, stepping on cracks was strictly forbidden—you would break your mother’s back. That was in 1988: the time of scrunched socks, Run DMC, and real New York-style pizza—the kind with an aroma that drifted down the block and told you it was owned by Vinny or his grandfather.

It was the town of true German street pretzels and spicy all-beef hotdogs with every topping imaginable.

It was the town of subways riddled with graffiti and flickering lights that went dark when we entered a tunnel. I have a vivid memory of hugging my grandmother tightly, burrowing my face into her bosom for safety every time the train went black. It was almost fun for me—like we were heading into an unknown horizon that only she and I shared. And I loved her for it.

But now, 30 years later, when I look at these images, I remember different things—because this is New York through the eyes of a 30-years-older me.

Yes, the streets are still paved in old gum. Yes, graffiti still lives on the trains. But something feels lost. It’s like renewing an old relationship and realizing the spark has changed. The corner stores have been replaced by Sephoras. The New York-style pizza is now owned by Rashid or Juan. And my grandmother is no longer alive.

This New York has become my old York—along with the charm.

And although every time I cross the bridge to re-enter my place of birth, my heart swells with longing, it also aches. I miss the dirty, broken New York City that birthed me. These photos are a reflection of myself as a tourist. Though there is excitement in my eyes, there’s also loss that cannot be discounted—despite the undeniable beauty of Chinatown and the grand architecture that once fostered my family for generations.