Travel has always been the quiet throughline in my life—an instinct more than a hobby. I grew up moving between places, learning that geography can shape you, soften you, sharpen you. Over time, travel became the way I understood the world: not through itineraries or checklists, but through stillness, detail, rhythm. The way a city wakes up. The pace of a dinner that stretches into night. The feeling of belonging somewhere you’ve never been before.

 

Ross entered that picture naturally. We travel differently, but somehow in sync: I’m the one collecting the textures—architecture, design, the light in a particular courtyard—while he gravitates toward the moments that feel lived-in. Together, the best trips are the ones where we let the days unfold without forcing them: mornings spent walking with no real destination, afternoons reading on a terrace, nights talking over a bottle we didn’t plan on ordering. The kind of travel that feels less like escape and more like returning to ourselves.

 

We gravitate toward places that understand the art of subtlety—properties that don’t need to perform, cities that reveal themselves slowly, landscapes that make you quiet without trying. Whether it’s a villa on Como, a hotel that feels like home in Milan, or a hidden beach that makes time irrelevant, we look for travel that leaves space for experience rather than filling it.

 

West of Milan grew out of that shared way of seeing the world. A belief that travel should feel considered, personal, edited. That the best trips aren’t always the most elaborate—they’re the ones that resonate. The ones you carry with you.

 

This is the lens through which we explore: curious, discerning, always searching for the places that feel both new and strangely familiar. It’s not about collecting destinations. It’s about collecting a life that feels fuller, richer, more intentional—one journey at a time.