Traveling to other places in the world is a privilege I never take for granted.
For the longest time, I dreamt of seeing the places I only knew through movies, TV shows, and books. Now I get to explore them with my best friend—my husband—whose love for travel sometimes outpaces even mine.
When we were dating, he asked if I wanted to join him on a trip to the Dominican Republic—specifically Punta Cana. I said yes, obviously. Part of me was thrilled about the beaches, sure, but my real excitement? Trying every possible Dominican dish I can get my hands on.
The resort was beautiful, but it also felt… sealed off. Polished. Carefully curated. And while a good buffet has its place (no shade to the Japanese, Italian, and steakhouse restaurants they had going on), I wanted the food locals were eating, authentic seasonings, real stories, real hands behind the stove.
The next day, I did what any food-motivated traveler would do: I started talking to the workers, not the tourists. They pointed me toward little spots within walking distance, the roadside kitchens where the food tasted like someone’s grandma was stirring the pot.
We found a rustic, no-frills restaurant that reminded me of the places my parents took me growing up, warm, familiar, alive. The woman running the kitchen told us about the day’s menu, and we ordered everything with the enthusiasm of two people who didn’t need that much food. She mentioned she could make sancocho the next day. We promised we’d be back. And we were. Because when someone offers you homemade sancocho, you don’t hesitate—you show up hungry.
The food? Spectacular. Rich, honest, beautifully seasoned in a way that no resort buffet could ever replicate.
The rest of the trip was fun—games, drinks, meeting other travelers—but it all felt a little too packaged, too tourist-approved. We haven’t been back to the Dominican Republic since, but when we do, I’m heading straight to Santo Domingo to learn more about the island’s traditions, flavors, and the everyday magic of its people.
That trip taught me something big:
I had found my partner in crime. Someone who understood my heart, my curiosity, my food-driven detours. Someone who would travel the world with me, not just to see the sights, but to feel the places we visit.
Mesa Confessions:
Yes, I love a nice meal at a fancy restaurant, but my soul belongs to the mommas-and-pappas places. The family spots. The local pubs where people pull up chairs, not pretenses. I travel for those stories; the ones simmering in pots, passed through generations, and shared freely with strangers who become a little less strange by the end of the meal.
Those are the moments I carry with me. Those are the bites that stay.
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