Like most people, I’ve booked the hotels, mapped out the trains, and spent an embarrassing amount of time refreshing the weather forecast. But I have also spent a considerable amount of time getting ready in other ways as well.

Here are a few things I’ve been doing before I leave.

1. Getting into my sun protection routine

Lately, I’ve been thinking less about getting tan and more about protecting my skin. I’ve been spending more time outside while staying diligent about sunscreen, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. The goal isn’t to avoid the sun, it’s more so for me to build habits that will carry over once I’m spending ten or twelve hours a day wandering outside.

I’ve learned that the easiest way to get burned isn’t during a beach day, but during the hours spent walking and sightseeing. A little consistent sun exposure paired with good sun protection now feels like the best preparation for enjoying Europe later. Plus I get a nice base tan and my skin won’t be instantly burned upon arrival.

2. Getting my stomach in order

In my opinion, nothing derails a vacation faster than feeling terrible. So for the past few weeks I’ve been making a conscious effort to prioritize probiotics, ginger tea, plenty of water, and mostly whole, minimally processed foods. It’s less about “being healthy” and more about giving my stomach the best possible chance before I suddenly ask it to process croissants and rosé.

Europe is one of my favorite places to eat and I plan to enjoy it thoroughly. I’d rather spend my time deciding which restaurant to try next than wondering whether my stomach is going to cooperate.

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3. Keeping my skincare incredibly boring

About a month ago I scheduled a deep-cleansing facial and since then I’ve resisted the urge to overcomplicate things. So my current routine is a hydrating cleanser, moisturizer and sunscreen. That’s pretty much it.

Travel has a funny way of reminding your skin that it’s in an entirely new environment. Different water, different climate, long flights, little sleep - the skin usually finds a way to protest. I’ve learned that introducing new products right before a trip almost never ends well.

4. Reading the fabric label

This may be the most practical thing I’ve learned from traveling through Europe in the summer: Fabric choice in an outfit matters far more than the outfit itself.

These days I pack almost entirely natural fibers: linen, cotton, and silk. Polyester has completely disappeared from my suitcase, along with anything mysteriously labeled “satin blend.” I’ve learned the hard way that nothing ruins an otherwise beautiful afternoon faster than realizing your dress has become permanently attached to your back via sweat while you’re strolling through a village in ninety-degree heat. It’s a gross feeling and I don’t want to replicate it.

5. Working on my fitness

I’ve started walking more before long trips - not because I’m training for anything, but because I’d rather arrive ready than spend the first two days complaining that my feet hurt. Let’s be real, when you’re in Europe, you are walking at minimum 10 - 15K steps a day.

The best cities are discovered on foot, and some of my favorite beach destinations require a surprising amount of hiking, climbing, or wandering to reach. The stronger I feel before I leave, the less my body takes a toll once I am there.

To prepare, I have been walking minimum 10K steps a day in NYC which has been slightly hard to do in this crazy heat wave situation. For me, effort and consistency is key. If I don’t reach my goal, that is ok, I just reset for the next day. Additionally, I’ve been doing the 12 - 30 - 3 workout (is that it?) that has been popular for a while. 12 incline, speed 3 and 30 minutes on the treadmill without holding on to the treadmill handles for any support. Say what you want but the workout is hard. It took a little while to enjoy it but each time it got easier and easier. I kept thinking about the hills of Capri I encountered a few years ago, this workout would have come in handy then!

6. Adjusting my sleep before the plane takes off

This is probably the hardest part for me because I never can maintain a sleep schedule that gets me to bed earlier than 11pm. But a few days before departure I start shifting my evenings earlier, drinking more water than usual, and trying to bank as much quality sleep as I can. I know the first couple of days abroad are never going to feel perfectly synchronized, but I’ve found that arriving rested makes the adjustment considerably easier.

Energy, I’ve realized, is one of the most valuable currencies you can bring on a trip.

It also reminds me of the classic Dorothy Wang quote from the show Rich Kids of Beverly Hills - ‘Jet lag is tacky',’ I love Dorothy 😂

That’s all for now readers! In a few hours, I am taking off on a red eye and will land in my first stop, Paris! I am so excited. This will be my 5th time going and I can’t wait to just sit at a cafe with my coffee and people watch.

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First came the Ritz-Carlton Yacht Collection. Then Four Seasons announced its yacht venture. Orient Express entered the conversation with a dramatic sailing concept that looks less like transportation and more like a floating Bond villain fantasy. Aman, naturally, is reportedly heading towa…

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Another thing I love about summer is the action - and by …

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I think it should be Paros.

Paros rarely gets the same level of attention. It is not the island plastered across every honeymoon Pinterest board like Santorini, nor does it carry the party mythology of Mykonos. It si…

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Not the literal country, obviously. I knew where I was flying. But the version of Greece I had quietly assembled in my imagination long before boarding the plane. Whitewashed villages softened by age. Sleepy tavernas where wine appeared before you even asked for it. Somewhere textured. Somewhere…

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Outfit Inspo

How adorable is this wooden fish purse? The fish motif is transitioning from jewelry to purses now and I am into it. I’ll be paring this with a flowy top and some relaxed white wash denim shorts and sandals. I want the bag to stand out in this ensemble. Also adding some gold stud earrings to bring some more color to the overall outfit.

I think it’s safe to say that taffeta pants are in for the summer - and Chan Luu is the cool girl brand to get them from. I’m pairing these barrel pants with a fitted white t- shirt and some funkier accessories to complete the look. Necklace & purse options I’m loving linked here, here, here and here. These clear strap sandals also add something to the outfit with their pink undertones. These Chan Luu pants also come in so many different colorways and shapes. Really loving the lighter silver option and the classic black as well.

Who can say no to a breezy mini dress to wear in the summer heat? Another similar option here. I’m thinking of wearing something like this on a walking heavy day while I’m in the South of France this summer. Maybe this dress can even double as a beach cover-up? Paring this with some sun gear (sunglasses and hat always) and a tote to hold all my cool market finds. You can easily change this from day to night by swapping the sneakers to some embellished flats and adding some stand out jewelry.

Summer Trend Rundown (From My Eyes)

In addition to putting together the above outfits, I also had a go of visually analyzing the Shopbop Summer best sellers list. Here is what I have found.

1. The Color Palette Feels Softer and More Costal: Bright neons are taking a backseat to creamy whites, sandy neutrals, butter yellow, soft blue, chocolate brown, and washed tropical prints. I’m taking note of this as I am packing my future suitcase in my head. It might make things easier to mix and match.

2. Linen Is Still The Vacation Uniform: Linen dresses, relaxed pants, matching skirt sets, and oversized button-downs are all coming in multiple shades and silhouettes this year. I am all for this, as linen one of the most breathable and practical fabrics. Just be sure to be wary of your sunscreen - some of the mineral ones tend to leave an unfortunate stain on the fabric.

3. Shell Jewelry Is Having a Major Moment: Should we call this “Shellmaxxing”? Seashell pendants, scallop motifs, pearl-and-shell combinations, and ocean inspired charms are everywhere - but elevated. Think gold shell pendant you wear in Capri, not puka shells from 2004.

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Want To Read More Friday Floats? Check Out My Previous Articles Below

👉 Read my South of France hotel wishlist here

👉Read my thoughts on the best beach clubs in the Amalfi Coast here

👉Read my article asking why people spend money on very expensive suitcases here

👉Read my thoughts on why being a tourist is not the worst thing here

A few days ago, I posted my article about Santorini, and my experiences on the very well kno…

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As if every island offers the same white buildings, blue water, seafood dinners, and glowing sunsets packaged slightly differently depending on which ferry you board.

They don’t.

After visiting the islands across two separate trips, I realized something quickly: the Greek Islands are less like variations of the same destination and more like entirely different personalities sharing the same sea. And if you only have limited time there, the island you choose will dictate the emotional rhythm of your trip more than people admit.

This is not a vacation I would blindly wing.

Could you? Of course. There will always be travelers who insist the best experiences happen spontaneously. But the Greek Islands involve movement. Ferries. Heat. Wind. Logistics. Beach timing. Rental cars. Bus schedules. Restaurant reservations. Hotel locations that can either completely elevate your experience or quietly ruin it.

The real question is not “Which island is best?”

It’s: what do you actually want out of this trip?

Because if your expectations align with the personality of the island, you’ll likely leave obsessed with Greece. If they don’t, the exact same destination can suddenly feel exhausting or underwhelming.

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Santorini is the clearest example of this. Santorini is not primarily a beach destination to me. It is a visual destination.

The island revolves around the caldera. The white buildings stacked dramatically into the cliffs. The sunset in Oia that turns thousands of strangers silent for a few brief moments while the sky changes color above the sea. It truly is stunning.

But it is also the most tourist forward island I visited, and I think people underestimate how much planning affects whether Santorini feels magical or frustrating.

Where you stay matters enormously.

If you are envisioning the cinematic version of Santorini that exists in everyone’s imagination, stay in Oia. That softer, dreamlike atmosphere people associate with the island lives there. Fira is more functional and central, but it does not create the same emotional experience. I realized very quickly that two people can leave Santorini with entirely different opinions simply based on where they booked their hotel.

And despite the constant pressure online to optimize every second of the trip, I actually think the island works best when you accept it for what it is. Take the buses. Let yourself wander. Accept the crowds as part of the equation instead of fighting them all day. Because Santorini is not about escaping people. It is about witnessing beauty alongside them.

Paros sits on the opposite end of the spectrum entirely.

Compared to Santorini, Paros feels quieter. It’s softer around the edges, less concerned with spectacle. The pace slows almost immediately once you arrive. People linger at tables without urgency. Shops close earlier. The energy feels more local and residential in certain pockets, especially once you move away from the central areas.

I understand why so many people love it. But I also think Paros requires honesty about what it actually offers.

The beaches are nice but personally, they were not the kind of beaches I kept replaying in my head once I returned home. Nothing about them dramatically shifted my understanding of beach travel.

The standout in Paros for me was the food.

We ate constantly there. Fresh seafood, grilled vegetables, simple dishes that somehow tasted better than they should have. Meals became the centerpiece of the day rather than the thing squeezed in between activities. The island almost encourages you to slow down enough to notice small pleasures again.

Paros also feels less overwhelming, but that quieter atmosphere can also read as sleepy depending on what kind of traveler you are. If you need constant stimulation, nightlife, or highly memorable beach experiences, you may leave wanting something more.

And that’s exactly why I think people need to define their intentions before choosing an island.

Because if your goal is rest, food, slower mornings, and a softer pace of life, Paros suddenly makes perfect sense.

Milos, however, felt entirely driven by the ocean.

More than any other island I visited, Milos revolved around swimming, boating, and exploring the coastline itself. The island almost feels designed for people who structure their vacations around water first and everything else second.

The beaches there are extraordinary.

Not just visually beautiful, but varied in a way that keeps the island feeling constantly surprising. Giant white volcanic formations. Hidden coves. Electric blue water shifting shades depending on the light. Tiny swimming spots inaccessible by land. Places where your boat simply pauses and someone says, “Jump.”

And so you do.

Everyone talks about Sarakiniko, or ‘Moon Beach’ and it deserves every bit of attention it gets. But strangely, some of my favorite moments in Milos happened at beaches I still couldn’t confidently name now.

Milos boasts of remote stretches of coastline reached only by boat. Quiet swimming spots without restaurants or music or infrastructure. Just cliffs, saltwater, sunlight, and hours spent moving slowly through the sea.

The entire island seems structured around maximizing daylight. You wake up early because you want more time outside. You spend the day chasing water conditions and hidden beaches. Then night arrives and the island quiets almost immediately.

Swim. Eat. Rest. Repeat. That becomes the rhythm. And for travelers who love beaches deeply, not just aesthetically but experientially, Milos feels incredibly rewarding.

I know many people recommend visiting the Greek Islands during the off season. In October, winter or early spring. And logically I get it. There are fewer crowds,maybe even better prices.

But personally, I still prefer seeing the islands fully alive.

I want the warm water, busy ferries, and the buzzy restaurants. I want to experience these places at their fullest expression, even if that means accepting certain inconveniences alongside the beauty.

Because every island comes with tradeoffs. And once you understand what you actually want from your trip, those tradeoffs stop feeling disappointing and start feeling intentional.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be diving deeper into the Greek islands I’ve visited individually because each one deserves its own conversation. Some islands immediately clicked for me, while others became more interesting the longer I reflected on them afterward. Either way, I left realizing Greece is far less straightforward, and far more nuanced, than people make it seem online.

The right island can completely shape your summer. And in a place where every ferry leads to a different version of the trip, knowing the difference matters.

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You can sense it almost immediately, mostly in the tone, the expectation, the subtle pressure to participate in a very specific version of a vacation. Where to go, how to show up, what’s considered “worth it.” The experience is beautiful, but it’s also pre-defined.

And then …

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As a refresher: These are shorter, more immediate notes. The places, hotels, and beach travel experiences I keep coming back to in my head. Sometimes it’s a full list, sometimes just one place or thing I can’t stop thinking about. Think of this as the in-between. Not a full deep dive, …

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—

I’ve always been petite. I’m 5'1, and for most of my life, my body existed outside of any real narrative.

I didn’t grow up thinking about food in moral terms, or exercise as something that required discipline or identity. I ate intuitively, without much negotiation. I’ve never been someone who restricts or avoids things out of principle. If anything, I’ve always believed food should be enjoyed, not managed. I don’t naturally gravitate toward overly indulgent food like fast food or desserts, but I also don’t deny myself those things when I want them. My relationship with food, like my relationship with my body, has always been steady. Unremarkable in a way that now feels increasingly rare.

I also grew up going to the beach. In that environment, the bathing suit was not symbolic. It wasn’t something you prepared for or evaluated yourself within. It was functional. Forgettable even. I don’t remember comparing my body to anyone else’s, or even thinking to. My body in a bathing suit felt like something I inhabited, not something I observed.

Looking back, that absence of awareness feels less like neutrality and more like a kind of insulation.

That insulation began to erode when I moved to New York in my early twenties.

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The shift was gradual but comprehensive. Corporate life introduced a kind of physical stillness that required compensation. Long hours at a desk, meals that became efficient rather than intuitive and movement that had to be scheduled instead of assumed. Alongside this came a language around “wellness” that felt both casual and prescriptive.

At some point, health stopped being a state and became something closer to a responsibility.

I remember being told, very plainly by two much older female coworkers, that I should join Equinox or risk “getting flabby.” It was said lightly, almost jokingly, but it carried an underlying certainty that made it feel less like commentary and more like instruction. I joined, not out of insecurity, but because it seemed like participation in the environment I had entered.

Exercise still felt positive. It gave structure to my days and clarity to my mind. But it also marked the beginning of something subtler: the idea that the body required maintenance in order to remain acceptable.

Around that same time, I planned a trip to Thailand with my good friend. It was a place I had seen repeatedly online. I was attracted to the beaches of course. But when researching the trip on social feeds, I remember noticing how consistent those bodies on the beach appeared. Lean, composed and almost interchangeable in their proportions. The beach in those images served as a backdrop to highlight this new aesthetic, a narrower version of what it meant to have a beach body.

That was the first time I became aware of my own body as something that could be evaluated.

Nothing about me had changed. But the context had. I remember being on that trip, wearing a swimsuit at the beach, and feeling a subtle but persistent sense of scrutiny. The scrutiny was not from others, but from myself. The experience was still joyful, but it was no longer unmediated. There was now a second layer running alongside it: observation.

That layer never fully disappeared.

For a while, it receded. I moved into my thirties, into a more grounded version of life. I work out consistently, but not with the intention of reshaping myself. I view working out more as a way to maintain mental clarity than physical correction. I thought I had returned, more or less, to a place of balance.

Then, over the past four months, something shifted again. And this time, it has been more difficult to ignore.

I began to see advertisements for Ozempic, and medications like it everywhere. It was almost overnight it had become visibly embedded in everyday life. Not just in passing, but with a kind of consistency that feels deliberate. Subway ads. Social feeds. Television commercials. Ozempic and similar weight loss drugs of the like were no longer limited to starlets in Hollywood or the fanciest concierge doctor. They were being pushed to the normal person such as myself. The presence is no longer subtle enough to overlook. It has become part of the visual baseline.

At the same time, a very specific aesthetic seems to have reasserted itself. Thinner, sharper, more controlled bodies - presented less as aspiration and more as an expected outcome. The ideal “beach body,” as it now appears online, feels increasingly narrow. Less like a range, more like a template.

What feels distinct about this moment is not just the return of a thinner ideal, but the way it is being framed.

Thinness is no longer positioned as the result of discipline. It is increasingly positioned as something accessible. It’s now streamlined, medicalized and overly simplified. The friction that once complicated that pursuit has, at least in appearance, been reduced.

This is not, in itself, an argument against individual choice. People make decisions about their bodies for complex and personal reasons, many of which are rooted in health. That distinction matters.

But what is harder to separate is the cultural effect of those choices becoming highly visible and increasingly normalized within a single visual standard.

I felt this most unexpectedly when I saw a world-class athlete - someones whos athletic strength and personal brand always championed body positivity - now positioned within this same conversation. They were advertising a weight loss drug and their face was everywhere, indicating that they too needed to lose weight. Around the same time, a model whose career is built around swimwear, someone whose image is already aligned with what we consider a “beach body,” spoke openly about using the same class of medication and described it as a struggle but yet necessary to maintain her appearance.

I don’t find fault in either of these decisions. If anything, they underscore something more unsettling: that even bodies we might assume exist outside of pressure are still subject to it.

That realization shifts the conversation from individual choice to collective environment.

Because what happens when no body is exempt?

For me, the effect has been subtle but immediate. I began to notice how quickly my perception recalibrated. I would look at my own body and then, almost reflexively, compare it to what I was seeing. Not because I had decided to, but because the comparison now felt embedded.

I found myself wanting things I hadn’t previously prioritized. Things like more definition in my arms or more lean muscle outlines in my stomach. And if I’m being honest, I can’t separate that entirely from the fact that I’m getting married this year. There is a hyper awareness that comes with that. The awareness of being photographed, of existing in images that will last, of wanting to feel like the most refined version of myself. Not just present, but polished.

That awareness, paired with the visual environment, can quietly turn into scrutiny.

This is the part that feels most difficult to name without overstating it: the desire that emerges in this environment doesn’t always feel entirely self-generated.

It feels reinforced.

The normalization of phrases like “just losing a few pounds” adds another layer to this. It frames intervention as minor, almost casual, even when the mechanisms behind it are not. It suggests that small dissatisfaction is not only valid, but easily correctable.

That framing is what feels new and what feels consequential.

In quieter moments, I’ve caught myself considering things I wouldn’t have previously entertained. Not seriously, but definitely enough to notice. Enough to recognize how easily the logic presents itself.

And yet, alongside that, there is a clarity about what I do not want.

I don’t want my body to become something I am constantly recalibrating in response to external cues. I don’t want health to collapse into aesthetic alignment. I don’t want to lose the ease I once felt stepping onto a beach, putting on a bathing suit, and not thinking twice about it.

In a few days, I will be back on a beach. At one of my favorite places that has always felt uncomplicated to me. And what I want, more than anything, is not to be concerned with whether I fit the current definition of a “beach body.” To not be concerned by the version shaped by algorithms, or trends, or whatever this moment is asking bodies to look like.

I just want to return to something simpler.

To being in the water.
To feeling the sun.
To existing without interpretation.

I don’t want to arrive at the beach wondering whether I meet the standard of what a body should look like there. I want to arrive and feel comfortable. Unremarkably, quietly comfortable in my own skin.

And if there’s anything worth holding onto, it’s the hope that I can protect that feeling over time: to keep my sense of self intact, even as the images around me continue to shift. To experience the beach again for what it has always been. Something to be in and not something to be evaluated within.

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Author’s note: This is not a critique of individual choices. Medications like Ozempic serve real medical purposes, and people make decisions about their bodies for reasons that are personal, and often complex. This reflection is about something broader, specifically the way increased visibility and normalization of a single aesthetic can reshape how we see ourselves. That shift, more than any one decision, is what I am trying to understand. As always, thank you for reading.

Welcome to the second Friday Float, a new series from The Beach Index!

As a refresher: These are shorter, more immediate notes. The places, hotels, and beach experiences I keep coming back to in my head. Sometimes it’s a full list, sometimes just one place I can’t stop thinking about. Think of this as the in-between. Not a full deep dive, but not just a passing thought either.

Today’s Friday Float: South of France Hotel Wishlist

My first and only experience in the South of France was in Nice. At the time, I wasn’t completely taken by it. It felt crowded, a little harder to settle into, and not quite what I had imagined. I wrote about that a few weeks ago on Substack and the response shifted my perspective. A lot of people pointed out that Nice isn’t the full picture.

👉 Read my initial thoughts of Nice here

For context, I stayed at a Holiday Inn when I was in Nice. I know, I know, it’s a cookie cutter hotel with nothing nodding to the region. We were young and on a super tight budget. We just were happy to be there. The hotel ended up being fine, but looking back, I don’t think it shaped the experience in the way the South of France requires.

Because on the Côte d'Azur and surrounding countryside towns, where you stay matters just as much as where you go. The region isn’t just about beaches. It’s about atmosphere, pace, and the setting you choose to place yourself in.

So if I were to go back, this is where I’d start.

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1. Hotel Le Pigonnet, Aix-en-Provence

A garden escape just outside the Riviera

This hotel feels like a quaint countryside escape just outside all the action. Set in Aix-en-Provence, just inland from the coast, it leans into greenery, space, and a slower rhythm. The gardens are the centerpiece, and everything about it feels soft and grounded.

Why it stands out:

• A countryside setting that offers space and calm away from coastal density

• A more traditional, understated take on the South of France experience

2. AREV St. Tropez, Saint-Tropez

A cheeky design take on a classic destination

Saint-Tropez has a strong identity, and this feels like a way to experience it with a bit more intention. Located just outside the center of town, it offers separation from the buzz while still keeping you within reach of it.

Why it stands out:

• Fun, non pretentious, nautical aesthetic that feels current without being overwhelming

• Location that balances access to town with a more relaxed environment

3. Tuba Club, Marseille

Minimalist and fully rooted in the landscape

This is the South of France at its most stripped back. Built directly into the rocky coastline of Marseille, it removes the traditional idea of a beach stay entirely. No sand, no excess, just water, stone, and a slower pace. Its restaurant seems like a must visit as well.

Why it stands out:

• A strong sense of place, integrated directly into the natural surroundings

• A more understated, alternative experience compared to the grandiose nature of the French Riviera

Final Take

The more I look into the South of France, the more it feels like a place that requires multiple visits to fully understand. Each of these hotels represents a completely different version of the region. Maybe I moved on from it too quickly the first time…

If you’ve stayed at any of these places, or have other recommendations for where to stay in the South of France, I’d love to hear them!

And if you’re enjoying The Beach Index, sharing, subscribing, or sending it to a friend really helps it grow.

See you at the beach!

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We decided to experience it by private boat. Partly for the views, but mostly for the feeling. It was August, and we knew the island would be busy, so we wanted to carve out a sense of space within it. We left from Sorrento, meeting our skipper at the main dock before heading out into open water. As the coastline faded behind us, the pace shifted. The day stretched out ahead, unstructured. The sky was clear, the sun steady. I applied a little extra sunscreen to my face to prevent a future burn.

Our skipper, Maxim, seemed to carry the coastline’s history with him. He pointed toward cliffs and told stories of Tiberius, of power and exile, of bodies cast into the sea. When we neared the Faraglioni, he shared the different legends tied to the rocks. In one telling, Polyphemus hurled them in anger at Ulysses. In another, they were home to sirens, their songs pulling sailors toward destruction.

I tried to listen. I really did. But the water kept pulling my attention away. A shade of blue that feels almost artificial until you’re in it.

We stopped to swim in an area where the water was both deep and impossibly light in color at the same time. It moved just enough to remind you of its depth. We floated there for a while, suspended between stillness and motion. A few yachts lingered nearby, quiet and imposing, as if part of a parallel version of the same place.

As we approached the Faraglioni, the atmosphere shifted. Boats gathered, engines idling, forming a loose queue in the water. Everyone was waiting for the same moment - the photograph that marks your presence there.

We joined in. Maxim positioned the boat carefully, guiding us into place between the rocks. I had told myself I wouldn’t focus on getting the perfect shot, that I would just let the moment unfold.

“One, two, three -”

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Just as the photo was taken, the boat tipped slightly. We lost our balance and fell into each other, caught somewhere between surprise and laughter. The image we captured wasn’t composed or polished. It was off-center, a little chaotic, our expressions unguarded.

At first, I felt a flicker of disappointment. But when I looked at the photos again, I saw something else entirely. A moment that felt real. Unscripted. The kind of memory that holds more weight over time than something perfectly arranged.

We left the boats behind for a few hours and stopped at a beach club tucked into Marina Piccola. The water there was the clearest we had seen all day. Almost glass-like at the edges. We swam briefly before settling in for lunch. Grilled fish, simple vegetables, everything tasting better after hours in the sun.

I wanted to linger a little longer, to stretch the afternoon out. But Capri has a rhythm that keeps you moving, whether you intend to or not.

We started walking, the sun making its presence known by heating up our skin. We ascended a large staircase, our hearts pounding as we rose up each flight of stairs, thankful that we were relatively healthy and had on flat shoes. The climb did not stop at the end of the staircase. The hills, more stairs and winding paths did not seem to end. There was nothing passive about being there. The island demanded something physical from you.

I watched numerous older Italian women pass by with ease. They were steady and strong, moving like it was nothing. Meanwhile, I was catching my breath, wondering how this was a part of their daily life. I admired these native ladies. Age was not the limiting reagent to their strength and mobility. From my view, their life seemed simple, tied to their community and tied to the sea. The hills did not impose a barrier, just a pathway from one place to another. It made me wonder how much of the island exists just outside of what most people see.

The smell of citrus was fragrant. We continued to journey towards the main square, catching glimpses of the cliffside island overlooking the sea. We began to approach a cluster of souvenir shops, many of them displaying lemons. These lemons were bright and oversized, almost theatrical looking. I couldn’t tell where authenticity ended and presentation began, but I appreciated the brightness they added to the landscape.

Upon entry to the main square, I realized I was disappointed. For starters, the main square was uncomfortably compact. A couple of restaurants lined the corners, a few people posted on some tables, drinking espresso in the shade. I wondered how they found respite from the hustle and bustle. There wasn’t much there, just a little square and weaving small roads towards the sides that hosted a few souvenir shops.

We quickly exited the main square and made our way out towards a large area with a beautiful overlook. The crowds persisted, people spilling into every corner, cameras out, moving in clusters. The backdrop of the view with Anacapri in the distance allowed for some breathing room. I thought I would wander, potentially find something quieter, hopefully something that felt more local.

But the shops told a different story. Luxury storefronts lined the streets, the same ones I pass on Madison Avenue. It made me pause. If the spaces begin to look the same, if the offerings remain unchanged, what defines the experience of being somewhere new?

That could be why everyone gathers in the square? It’s the easiest place to be. Everything else requires effort. And the more effort something takes, the fewer people you find there.

We stopped for gelato at one point, standing still just long enough to take in the view. Because despite the crowds, the scenery was undeniably beautiful. The cliffs, the water, the way everything seems to drop off into the sea. The legend of Tiberius floated into my mind again, how he would push his victims off the sheer cliffs lining the island. I wondered if their fate was sealed since they were so distracted from staring off into the distance, mesmerized by the perpetual Capri blue.

There were a few stops we did not get the chance to see. Punta Carena stayed on my mind. From everything I had read, it felt that spot seemed more aligned with what I tend to look for. More open in feeling and a solid place to watch the sunset without interruption. But it was far, and we had a boat to catch. There wasn’t enough time. Capri feels like that. Full and compressed, just slightly out of reach.

Eventually we began our descent back to the boat, taking in the grandiose views as we returned to Marina Piccola. Capri was showing off, its beauty at that point was undeniable. The scenery was an allure within itself.

Our skipper greeted us and ushered us back on board. We began our journey back to Sorrento. Being on the boat was a welcome slower change of pace of the active nature of Capri. Capri began to recede in the distance as we made our way back to Sorrento. The sun was dropping lower into the horizon on the sky, casting a slight shadow over the island. The previously experienced sunny nature with the giant lemons began to look mystical, more mysterious and ominous than originally interpreted.

Looking back on the day, I find myself wanting to return. Not to repeat it exactly, but to see it again from a different angle. Perhaps in a quieter season, with more time. I left feeling thoughtful more than anything else. Not disappointed, just aware that there was more to understand. That what I experienced was only one layer of something more complex.

It also feels premature to place Capri within The Beach Index right now. The framework I’ve been building: swimmability, atmosphere, ease, sense of place, doesn’t fully capture what this is. Capri exists slightly outside of easy categorization. A place shaped as much by its mythology as its reality.

But whenever I do return, I am looking forward to seeing it again. Maybe Capri is like an old friend I’ve drifted apart from. I’d like to continue the friendship, but at a distance, with a different set of expectations. A little less influenced by what has happened in the past, and more grounded in what is actually in front of me.

For now, it lingers in my head, unresolved.

Hi everyone! This is the first of a new series from The Beach Index. These are shorter, more immediate notes that feature the places, hotels, and beach experiences I keep coming back to in my head. Sometimes it’s a full list, sometimes just one place I can’t stop thinking about. Think of this as the in-between. Not a full deep dive, but not just a passing thought either.

Today’s Friday Float: the best beach clubs on the Amalfi Coast. Highlighting the ones that are actually worth the effort.

Because on the Amalfi Coast, everything is a little bit of an effort. And not every place rewards it.

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1. Da Adolfo, Positano

A cult favorite for a reason

There’s something almost mythic about Da Adolfo. A small boat marked by a red fish comes to collect you, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve done something wrong or missed it entirely.

When you finally reach the beach, it’s not pristine in the traditional sense. Pebbles instead of sand, chairs close together, the hum of people settling in. But then lunch begins. Simple yet perfect food served above the water. With the breeze moving through the dining room, everything slows down intentionally.

Why it’s worth it:

• A full-sensory experience — not just a beach, but a day

• Water that feels immersive and grounding, not just beautiful

👉 Read the full breakdown in my Da Adolfo guide on The Beach Index

2. Arienzo Beach Club, Positano

The iconic orange umbrellas and a little more energy

If you’ve seen a photo of Positano beach clubs, chances are it was Arienzo Beach Club. The bright orange umbrellas line the shore in perfect symmetry, set against the dramatic cliffs that define this stretch of coast.

It’s lively in a way that feels relaxing. Music, movement, long lunches that turn into late afternoons. It’s less about escaping the scene and more about stepping directly into it, but on your own terms.

Why it’s worth it:

• One of the most visually iconic beach setups on the Amalfi Coast

• A balance of swimming, dancing, social energy, and full-day atmosphere

3. Bagni Tiberio, Capri

A quieter counterpart with exceptional water

Over on Capri, Bagni Tiberio offers a different rhythm. Smaller, but leaning more bright (especially with the lime green beach chairs). It’s tucked into the island in a way that feels slightly removed from the main flow of Capri tourists.

The water is the stand out here. Clear and refreshing. You can slip into it without hesitation. It’s the perfect pause point during a day of exploring Capri, especially if you’ve arrived by boat and want somewhere to reset before heading back into the island’s buzzy main square.

Why it’s worth it:

• Exceptional swimmability and clarity

• Ideal stop to break up a day exploring Capri

What to Bring: Amalfi Beach Club Essentials

Amalfi beach clubs aren’t “throw a towel down and go.” A little preparation goes a long way. Here are some items on my mind for when I go next.

• A lightweight sarong — something easy to throw on between the beach and lunch. Some more fun options here and here. If you want more coverage, a breathable white cotton pant would work just as well.

• A statement swimsuit — you’ll likely be there all day. A bright one piece can double as a bodysuit so you can walk around town. Here is another stunning option if you’re not into the pink.

• A straw hat + beach bag — you’ll want coverage and ease of carrying your stuff

• Water shoes — many beaches are pebbled, not sandy. Your feet will thank you for the protection.

• Simple sandals — straps for security for post beach club exploring is a must. A lot of Amalfi is hilly, especially Capri. These sandals will pack nicely as well. Save the Manolos for another day!

• Face Sunscreen — one that doesn’t sting your eyes. I’m a big fan of the La Roche-Posay brand.

Final Take

The Amalfi Coast doesn’t hand itself to you easily. It asks for patience, planning, and a bit of flexibility.

But the right places — the ones that balance beauty with experience, give something back.

These three do exactly that.

See you at the beach!

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Not universally or casually. But with a kind of quiet insistence, as if they’ve discovered something just off the main path and aren’t entirely sure how widely it should be shared.

It has a following, the kind that doesn’t always translate clearly when you try to research it. Some people swear by it. Others say it’s too complicated, not always worth the effort, depending who you ask.

“Hit or miss,” I kept seeing.

A friend of mine didn’t hesitate.

We were sitting on her couch at her beach house, drinking Diet Cokes, talking through my upcoming trip to the Amalfi Coast. I had already mapped out most of it. Sorrento as a home base, a day in Capri, time in Positano. Executed in a fashion allowing enough movement to see everything, but with space for long swims and slow afternoons.

She looked at me and said, you have to go to Da Adolfo. Her eyes did not flinch.

So I took her unwavering suggestion and made the reservation.

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We went in peak season, which meant the Amalfi Coast felt exactly how people describe it. Beautiful, yes. But also crowded, layered with movement and energy and people trying to experience the same version of it all at once.

I was excited to be there, but quietly, I was also hoping my planning had paid off. That somewhere within all of it, we would find something that felt like our own.

Getting there did not immediately inspire confidence.

From Sorrento, we took a ferry to Positano. What looked straightforward on paper felt slightly disjointed in real time. Schedules blurred together. Directions were loosely followed. And once we arrived, we joined a small cluster of people waiting at the dock for the Da Adolfo boat.

The boat didn’t come right away. A few names were called that weren’t ours. The sun felt stronger standing still, and for a moment, it felt like we had miscalculated.

I kept looking out at the water, searching for the small boat with the red fish painted on it, hoping that would be the one. A few boats later it was.

The ride over was short, just enough time for Positano to begin slipping behind us, the cliffs rising higher, the edges of the coastline softening into something quieter.

And then we arrived.

At first glance, it wasn’t what I had imagined.

The beach was pebbled, not soft sand. I knew that from my research but faced with the facts in front of me, it was still disappointing to see. Rows of blue loungers were set close together, closer than I would have preferred. It felt more compact, more structured. For a moment, I was pulled back to an earlier trip, that same initial hesitation creeping in.

This is what we worked to get to?

And then, almost immediately:

I dragged us out of bed for this?

We checked in on the dock. A man with a red hat and t-shirt with bare feet approaching us with a clipboard. He ushered us to our lounge chairs and moved on to the next. Blunt and efficient. I felt slightly cast off, concerned that I had made the wrong choice. There was no personalized hospitality, it was more of an assembly line.

A bigger question came to mind, how do we know when it’s time for lunch?

We laid in our lounge chairs looking at the ocean. A large steel grey cliff loomed over our area providing a welcome shade from the beaming sun. The ocean’s waves were coming into the pebbly shore. The horizon stretched for miles, there was nothing in our line of sight but just open blue.

Behind the lounge chairs was a slightly raised open air platform with a simple roof where chairs and tables were set up.

People were beginning to make their transitions from beach to lunch. It wasn’t a fussy affair. Women tying their sarongs to their bathing suits, men with their sunglasses and oversized t-shirts to shield themselves from sunburn.

We followed suit and did the same as the others. The same man with a clipboard who greeted us on the doc showed us to our table. We sat down, still not entirely sure what the day would become, and then the food began to arrive.

The items came one at a time, all served on Majolica style dishware. Food contrasted warmly against the bright ceramics. Pesto that tasted impossibly fresh. Mozzarella baked in lemon leaves, warm and fragrant, the citrus woven delicately through each bite. A whole grilled snapper, simply prepared and perfectly done, the kind of dish that doesn’t need explanation. We ordered a glass of peach wine that turned into a second without much discussion.

The food blended into everything else. The air, the pacing, the feeling of being exactly where you were supposed to be. Efficiency existed yes, but nothing about it felt rushed.

The chaos of the boat transfer faded. The tightness of the beach didn’t seem to matter anymore. The day started to stretch, almost without us noticing.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, we started noticing the statues. Scattered throughout the property, subtle at first, then increasingly hard to ignore. For longer than I’d like to admit, I was convinced they were abstract fish. It became a quiet joke between us. It wasn’t until I stepped away and saw one up close that the illusion fell apart entirely. They were… not fish. Which made the entire thing funnier in retrospect.

The place is family-run, mostly by men, with one woman behind the bar who seemed to hold everything together with a quiet steadiness. The statues began to feel less like a random detail and more like part of the character of the place. A little irreverent. A little personal. Entirely its own.

After the lunch service was over we made our way to the beach. The sun was out in full swing, the shade from the cliff above no longer existed. The beach was all we had left to enjoy in its organic form.

The temperature was perfect, that exact balance of cool and refreshing that makes you stay longer than you intended. The pebbles, which had felt like a drawback, disappeared from my awareness the moment I was in. In turn I realized between the pebbles, were small rounds of green and blue sea glass. A kind reminder to myself to give the unexpected another chance.

There’s the main stretch of beach, and then a cove just beside it. Slightly tucked away, softer in energy, almost dreamlike in its stillness. The lunch crowd was now scattered amongst the main beach and cove. All were in pure enjoyment mode: sunbathing, wading, jumping of small rocks, everyone chasing the simple pleasure of a hot summer's day by the ocean.

I swam out further than I planned, then back again, then out once more. The water quality spoke for itself. Enough saline to keep me afloat, but not nearly enough to sting my eyes. There were no distractions, just a bright turquoise hue surrounding my body.

At some point, floating there, I had the distinct feeling of being completely removed from everything else. Not isolated, but held within it. Like the edges of the day had softened, and all that remained was the water, the light, and the quiet rhythm of being there.

We stayed in that rhythm for hours. Long after lunch, long after the initial uncertainty had dissolved into something else entirely.

At one point, we started looking into coming back the next day. We were supposed to be heading to Naples, continuing on, moving forward with the trip as planned.

Logistically, it didn’t work.

But that didn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

Because what we had been looking for wasn’t a scene. Not even perfection. We wanted to swim and let go. To feel something that felt true to the place we had come all this way to experience.

Somehow, despite the effort it took to get there, once we arrived, we were given the space to do exactly that. It made me reconsider something I’ve come to rely on.

The best beaches aren’t always the easiest ones. Some ask for a little patience. A little trust. And in return, they give you a day that doesn’t quite leave you.

Da Adolfo is one of them.

The Beach Index — Da Adolfo

Overall Score: 8.7 / 10

Swimmable Water: 9.6/10
The defining feature. Perfect temperature, incredibly clear, with a cove that adds a sense of calm and quiet separation. Easy to lose track of time once you’re in.

Visual Drama: 9/10
Cliffs rise sharply around the beach, and the tucked-away cove adds dimension. It feels distinctly Amalfi without being overly polished or crowded.

Atmosphere: 8.5/10
Relaxed, slightly idiosyncratic, and unpretentious. It carries a sense of personality that feels more local than performative.

Walkability: 6.5/10
Limited. You’re here for this specific experience, not to move between places. The effort to get in and out is part of the equation.

Sense of Place: 9.8/10
Strong and memorable. Between the setting, the food, the rhythm of the day, and even the small eccentricities, it leaves a lasting impression.

Final Take: Da Adolfo doesn’t align with the idea that the best beaches should be the easiest. It asks for a bit more from you, but in return, it offers something that feels distinctly its own. Not perfect, not seamless, but deeply memorable in a way that reshapes what you look for the next time around.

If you like places like this — the ones that stay with you a little longer than expected — subscribe to The Beach Index 🌊

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If you live in New York City, people start asking about your summer plans as soon as spring hits. And for a certain group of people, those plans revolve around one place: The Hamptons.

I used to be one of those people.

Summer Fridays meant leaving my desk right at 2pm, heading to Penn Station, and fighting for a seat on an overcrowded train. After almost three hours of cramped, restless train travel, you’d arrive, stepping into what felt like a completely different version of life.

The Hamptons had always been a place I wanted to experience. That pull started long before I ever visited. It existed in my mind as something aspirational, shaped by what I had seen on TV growing up. what I had seen on TV growing up. Gossip Girl and The Real Housewives of New York ignited my teenage curiosity, and Summer House carried it into adulthood. They showed a version of summer that was elevated, social and slightly out of reach. And in many ways, that version does exist.

We did everything we could to live inside that perfect summer capsule. Renting houses packed with people to split the cost. Throwing themed pool parties. Piling into cabs to go bar hopping. Waking up the next day hungover, only to do it all over again. We were living for the weekend, trying to maximize every second of it.

By Sunday, we’d pack up, board the afternoon train, and sit by the window watching a blurred version of the Hamptons slip away from us. Already thinking about the next time we’d come back.

We repeated that cycle for five summers.

The Hamptons has always carried that kind of buzz. It fueled the excitement, but it wasn’t always the defining factor. Over time, though, something shifted. It became more polished. More exclusive. More centered around access.

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It started to feel like everything hinged on where you could get in, who you knew and what reservation you managed to secure. Influencer culture and brand attention only amplified that shift. And with that, a quiet divide became more visible.

The Hamptons has always had a certain level of exclusivity, but now it feels more defined. Less implied, more experienced. Access, in many ways, shapes the entire rhythm of a weekend. Who gets in easily, and who doesn’t. What once felt like a local escape for New Yorkers has become something bigger. More visible and more saturated. And at times, a little harder to move through freely.

Towards the end of those summers, I started to notice it more. It slowly became a place you had to work to enjoy. And for me, that changed the feeling of it.

But there are other versions of the Hamptons, too.

The last time I went was in 2024. We rented a small A-frame in Amagansett, tucked near the beach. We brought our dog. We went to farm stands in the morning without much of a plan. We enjoyed staying in our beach bungalow, letting the days unfold slowly.

There were no reservations, no urgency to be anywhere. We just wanted to be near the ocean. And for that, it worked.

The beach near our house was quietly beautiful. We’d walk out through the back gate, cross over the dunes, and follow a narrow resident path that opened up into a wide stretch of sand that seemed to go on for miles.

It wasn’t dramatic in the way some beaches are. No cliffs, no striking formations, but it offered something else. It gave space and openness. A sense of release. It felt like a deep exhale.

Standing there, I remember thinking this isn’t the version of the Hamptons people usually talk about. And yet, it might be the one that matters more.

There’s something about being out there that creates distance. A kind of separation that’s harder to find now. Maybe it’s the unreliable cell service, or the physical distance from the city. Or maybe it’s something less tangible. But it’s there. If you lean into it, time does start to feel slower.

The sunsets, especially in Montauk, feel expansive in a way that’s hard to replicate elsewhere on the East Coast. The sky stretches wide, turning into layers of color that linger longer than you expect. There’s a reason they call it “The End.” It really does feel like you’ve reached something, like there’s nothing left beyond it but water and sky.

Montauk, at its core, aligns with everything I tend to look for. The openness, the visual drama, the feeling of being at the edge of something. It has all of it. But it’s also become a place I can’t experience in the same way anymore.

Over time, it’s grown more crowded. The energy has shifted during summer weekends into something that feels harder to settle into. What once felt expansive can start to feel compressed.

And I’ve realized that when a place becomes too full of people or of expectation, it begins to take away from the very things I go there for.

So now, if I go at all, it’s during the quieter days. Maybe Monday through Thursday, when it softens a little. When you can still catch glimpses of what it used to feel like. There is something bittersweet about that. Knowing a place still holds everything you love, but not always in a way you can fully access anymore.

Amagansett, in a quieter way, stays with me as well. There’s something about that stretch that feels more grounded. The kind of place where nothing is asking anything of you. When I do return, that’s where I’d stay.

Not just because it’s beautiful, but because it allows me to experience the Hamptons in a way that feels more aligned with what I look for now. It naturally pulls you away from the crowds, and instead brings your attention back to something simpler.

In Amagansett, I find myself focusing on the parts of a beach trip that I actually care about. Long walks without a destination. Quiet mornings. The sound of the ocean without interruption. The kind of stillness that doesn’t need to be filled.

It brings me back to the root of it all, what I think a beach vacation is supposed to feel like. Simple and uncomplicated. And in a place like the Hamptons, where so much can feel layered and structured, that simplicity feels even more valuable.

Through the lens of how I’ve started to understand beaches, the Hamptons leaves me a little conflicted. It ranks highly in certain ways. The natural beauty is undeniable. There are moments where it feels calm, expansive, even grounding. The sense of separation when you find it is real.

But the experience isn’t always effortless. Access can be complicated. There are long waits, limited entry points, and beach passes you cannot buy. These small frictions quietly shape the day. And over time, I’ve realized those things matter more to me than I thought they would.

Because a “good” beach, for me, isn’t just about how it looks. It’s about how easily you can exist there. How naturally the day unfolds. How little you have to think.

Unfortunately, the Hamptons doesn’t always offer that. And I think that’s where my uncertainty comes in. Not because it lacks beauty — but because it asks more from you than I’ve come to want to give.

But I also understand why people keep coming back here. Because the Hamptons does offer something, even if it reveals itself more quietly now, through its nature and stillness. The ocean’s waves, constant and familiar. The kind of sunset that makes you pause, even if just for a moment. Those things stay with you.

I don’t feel the same pull to return every summer the way I once did. But I wouldn’t call the Hamptons a bad place. I’m just not sure it’s the place for me in the way I once thought it was.

Maybe that’s the point. Not every place has to be everything to you. Sometimes it just has to be what it is, and let you take what you need from it.

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My background:

My knowledge of beaches started when I was very young. I grew up in California. Not sunny LA California, but the Bay Area. Anyone who knows where I grew up knows it is not always warm. Yes, the sun is strong in the summer, but it disappears from January through March. During those months, the air is thin and the rain feels constant, especially in the spring.

“It’s temperate,” my mom would say, though I don’t think she realized how much that annoyed me. I didn’t want “temperate.” I wanted warmth all the time.

On the nicer days, my family would take small trips to nearby beach towns. An hour or so in the car would bring us to the California coast. I would stare out the window, mesmerized by waves crashing into rocky shorelines. The winding roads of Highway 1 felt like part of the experience. We would move from town to town, stopping for a snack or walking down to the main beach just to look at the water.

It was always cold on these trips. The wind would whip my hair across my face, but I didn’t care. There was rarely consistent sunshine, but I didn’t care about that either. I always enjoyed myself. I hated the drive home, never wanting to leave the ocean. It felt intimidating and soothing at the same time. There was a comfort in looking out into something so vast, so unknown.

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As I reached my early pre-teens, we started traveling more as a family. My dad’s idea of a perfect vacation was simple: complete relaxation. Naturally, that led us toward warmer beach destinations.

We visited Maui in the early 2000s and fell in love with the island. We returned often. For summers, school breaks, until it became a kind of home away from home. We stayed in a large hotel once, but when we found Napili, we knew we couldn’t go back to the hotel version of the island. “Living” in Napili was our modest version of island life, something we only experienced for a few weeks at a time, but carried with us long after we left.

My dad was right. Napili was complete relaxation. The strength of the sun felt steady and comforting on my skin. The problems of my world disappeared there. I allowed myself to simply exist.

Being in Napili gave me a sense of peace that felt safe and secure in a way I didn’t fully understand at the time. It was only something I felt. It’s the kind of feeling that’s hard to explain. Sometimes there is just a gravitational pull that aligns you to a place, and you don’t question it. You just feel it, and you stay.

My journey:

When I visited Costa Rica in my twenties, I was searching for something.

I felt jaded. I had moved to New York City a few years earlier for my first real job, with only a few real friends. I had bet on myself, and at that moment, I felt like my bet was highly miscalculated. My life was shifting quickly, and I wanted to feel in control, or at least find a way to escape it.

I got lost in the world of online travel content. It was the height of Instagram, and travel influencers filled my explore page. I would sit alone for hours, scrolling through images of people whose lives seemed effortless and open, as if only good things were meant for them.

I would take their destinations and immediately open my laptop, obsessively searching where they were, building detailed itineraries to places I might never actually go. I wouldn’t even save them. I’d type them out, then delete them. I wasn’t really allowing myself to experience anything, just chasing an idea of it.

So when my friend suggested Costa Rica, we made a plan. A detailed plan.

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