In the Age of Algorithms, Travel Is Still About People
Happy New Year! Wishing you a prosperous 2026!
Thank you for reading my Substack. In February it will be two years since I started Wandernest, not sure what it would be at the time except an excuse to write about travel while launching an enterprise planning travel. It’s been an outlet for my writing and to share my finds with friends, or with anyone interested in discovering some new aspect of the world.
Since then, my travel business has grown, and I’ve happily observed the industry expand as travel is fortunately not slowing down. However one thing we rarely hear about are stories of locals in our travels who often make all the difference. Always curious about new cultures, well-designed hotels, or unforgettable regional dishes, I am equally curious about the people who contribute to making those destinations memorable. Today I tell the story of one example.
Strangers in Seville
The first time I traveled to Seville in the south of Spain was during my year of adventurous travel alone with my daughter Lulu when she was a toddler. Traveling with all the baby equipment, I decided to take her bulky car seat to the post office to ship it home. It was a purchase I had splurged on in New York, still hoping to use it once I returned.
The man behind the post office window took one look at this huge, American-designed child car seat, glared at me and shook his head.
“Señora, no. Es imposible.”
I didn’t need a translator to understand nor to read his face. But however absurd my request, it didn’t stop me from begging in broken Spanish. The thought of continuing to lug this in my travels, along with our suitcases, her stroller, other baby supplies, and the baby herself, brought tears of exasperation to my eyes.
“Excuse me Miss, can I help?”
A gentle-voiced, middle-aged Spanish woman overheard us and approached me in English offering to assist. I gladly accepted, and learned her name was Macarena.
When she took over the conversation in fluent Spanish with the man behind the window, and learned that to ship it to the U.S. was indeed an impossible task, she asked me if I wanted to donate it. She accompanied us over to a local convent a few blocks away, rang the doorbell to speak to the nuns, explained the situation over an intercom, and after the tall, imposing wooden doors to the convent cracked open to let us in, two nuns accepted the car seat and nodded in gratitude. They exchanged words with the señora.
“The sisters said it will be given to a family in need,” she translated for me. I let out a bittersweet sigh of relief. We turned away from the doors as the nuns closed them shut.
“Are you doing anything now?” she asked. “Would you two like to come over for a cup of coffee? My home is just up the street.”
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “That would be really nice.”
I was alone in a city with a 20-month old, where I knew no one. We had no plans.
We followed her along the winding cobblestone streets whose charm had captivated me in the short period we were there. It reminded me of a city already close to my heart, Florence, Italy— a city small enough to manage, beauty everywhere, elegant streets lined with history, an imposing central cathedral that dominated the city landscape. But here, Spanish flavors and the allure of the flamenco dance were omnipresent. Whether in storefront signs, music emanating from dance halls, or souvenir flamenco mini-dresses hanging from the stands of outdoor markets, Seville carried a very distinct essence of place.
A Surprise Visual Feast
Our Spanish companion, my daughter and I soon arrived at a small wooden door, an unassuming entry that stood flush with the saffron-colored brick walls on either side. It was an ordinary door one would pass on the street without a second thought.
When she opened it and led us inside, we were greeted by a magnificent courtyard that opened up to the sky. This elegant stranger’s home happened to be an elaborate 16th century palace, its design influenced by the Renaissance. Everywhere I turned there were so many fine details that drew my eye: marble columns, elaborate displays of colorful mosaic tiles, intricately carved stucco walls and beautiful wood ceilings. I became acutely aware of the history alive within its walls.
We were soon joined by her husband and teenage daughter in the comfort of their palatial yet cozy library. They were a delightful family, cultured, curious, and equally kind, and while Lulu explored the room with her toddler hands (under my watchful eye), we passed the evening getting to know each other. The palace was their actual home, named Casa de Salinas after the family, as it had been in his family for decades.
In the midst of this spontaneous evening, there came a moment my insecurities took over and I feared we were overstaying our welcome. I stood up abruptly and thanked them for inviting us into their home. As the woman led us to the front door, I made no effort to exchange information to keep in touch, but treated it as it was, a fortuitous yet brief interaction between strangers.
As I made our way to our hotel with Lulu in her stroller, I was buoyed by the woman’s graciousness and maternal empathy. I was also grateful for the rare window into the world of a local resident, in a city that was initially so foreign to us, and her generosity of spirit stayed with me for years.
Fourteen Years Later
Last year, I returned to the south of Spain for a work trip that covered Madrid, Cordoba, Seville, Ronda, Marbella, and Málaga, hosted by The Real Thing Spain. One of the many activities they had planned for us during that whirlwind of a week, was dinner at a local’s home in Seville.
That night, we were welcomed into the grand home of an elderly baroness, who hosted the evening alongside her son, José Carlos, who serves as the Honorary Consul for Italy in Seville. In conversation after dinner, I casually asked him if he was familiar with Casa de Salinas, and when he asked me why, I told him our story from years ago. He promptly pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
