By the end of this year, more than 1,400 people will have traveled with me on RSJ Yonderlust Tours. It’s hard to wrap my head around sometimes, considering it all started with one trip to Tuscany back in 2016. Just a handful of guests and a shared love for a place I’d come to know well. That was supposed to be it. A one-off. But the idea grew. Word spread. And now, with over fifty-three trips under my belt—plus two years off for COVID— 25 guests at a time, it’s become a big part of my life’s work.
I’ve been on the road for two months. My daughter got married on March 8th. Two days later, I was on a plane headed to Madrid. It’s been nonstop since—Spain, Tuscany, The Netherlands, Belgium, England, and Scotland. A full spring of shared tables, full days, early mornings, late nights, and the kind of camaraderie that only comes from traveling together.
Here’s what the last eight weeks looked like, best as I can piece it together. If it starts to sound like too much, that’s because it was. It felt like a whirlwind—and it was—but when you’re the one carrying the clipboard, checking the times, and trying to make sure everyone else has the time of their lives, you feel the miles a little differently. You’re not exactly coasting through the highlight reel.
Spain kicked things off. We didn’t just visit places—we dug in. Flamenco wasn’t a show we watched; it was something we learned, moved through, and laughed about. We made paella in a sunlit kitchen with local cooks who spoke with their hands as much as their words. We zip-lined over a river in Toledo, drove tiny GPS-guided cars through the streets of Barcelona, and cruised on the Mediterranean at sunset with the salt in the air and not much on the agenda beyond soaking it all in.
We joined the Las Fallas celebration in Valencia, standing high above the crowd on a private rooftop with a catered lunch and drinks while an unrelenting display of fireworks exploded below. We sat at small, humble tables inside real homes in a quiet Spanish town, eating lunches cooked by local housewives—no menus, no pretense, no tourist brochure in sight.
Next came three separate groups in Tuscany, where the days unfold differently. Slower, fuller. We rolled pasta dough by hand and topped pizzas with ingredients picked that morning. One afternoon we toured the marble caves of Carrara and stood in the cool stillness of the place where Michelangelo chose his stone. Another night, a former MTV Europe VJ played guitar, and his band walked us through the story of rock and roll—from Elvis to Springsteen, to U2, with stories in between.
More than once, we stayed up too late, but nobody seemed to mind.
We toured the Antinori winery—one of the best in the world—and walked quietly through the Palazzo Pitti, the Medici Chapel, and stood before Michelangelo’s David. We saw Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and wandered the remote countryside. One day we stepped inside the private palace of a duchess to view a $1 billion private art collection, something not open to the public. That’s not something I take lightly. Neither did the group.
We ate everywhere—on the street, in the market, inside casual trattorias, and around candlelit tables in fine-dining rooms. A few nights, we had pizza on the terrace of our villa overlooking miles of grapes and olives into the sunset. On others, Florentine steaks— four fingers thick— hit the grill while we told stories and passed platters down the table.
And somehow, we weren’t done yet.
From there, we made our way north to host my The Netherlands and Belgium group (the most veteran-heavy Yonderlust group I’ve ever hosted, many were seven-timers, most were five). We rode boats, trains, and choppers along the levee with sweeping views of the North Sea. We held a cocktail class inside the world’s oldest liquor distillery. We learned to shrimp fish on horseback, toured— and slept in— chateaus in the countryside, and explored the battlefields and cemeteries of World Wars I and II while a retired Army general in our group gave us personal insight into Operation Market Garden.
The pace never really let up.
We stood among Van Goghs, Rembrandts, and Vermeers. We rode in horse-drawn carriages and toasted one another on a progressive dinner canal cruise through Amsterdam. We visited the tulip fields at Keukenhof and watched millions of flowers go to market at the world’s largest flower auction. One day we were celebrating King’s Day dressed in orange on a privately chartered boat, and the next we were elbow-deep in waffles, poffertjes, Dutch pancakes, and breweries with centuries of brewing tradition.
England brought a change of pace with my sixth, and final, group. We visited Churchill’s War Rooms after hours and got to go into parts the public doesn’t normally enter. We ate a multicourse gourmet dinner aboard a double-decker bus as we toured the streets of London. We sped along the Thames in rocket boats and then dined in a Michlein-starred restaurant on the 52nd floor of the Shard.
No two days looked the same, which is the way I like it.
From there, we headed to the quaint and quiet Cotswolds for four-wheelers and fresh country air, and to Liverpool for a Beatles experience and a deep-dive that pulled us straight into the music. Then Scotland, where we stayed on a private island in the lake country inside a manor house that might’ve made Agatha Christie raise an eyebrow. There was a murder mystery dinner and a picnic on the grounds. And in between all of it, plenty of laughter. We wore kilts for dinner in a castle, watched pipers play and dancers whirl, and even tried haggis—which, honestly, wasn’t bad.
One thing rolled into the next.
We foraged in woodlands, shot skeet and arrows, and held out our arms as owls, falcons, hawks, and eagles flew to us during a falconry session. They tasted Scotch at the remote island distillery and again at Johnnie Walker’s in Edinburgh. We rode a train over the Harry Potter bridge and skipped stones at a bonfire along lochside shores.
And through it all—every city, every meal, every new mode of transportation (and there were many: boats, horses, buggies, subways, scooters, trains, buses)—the best part was always the people.
RSJ Yonderlust Tours doesn’t work because of me. It works because of the guests who show up ready. Ready to laugh, to learn, to try something new, to make new friends, and to roll with whatever the day brings. A few were first timers; many were on their sixth or seventh trip with me. All of them said yes to adventure. I’ll never stop being grateful for that trust.
This job isn’t without its long days. It’s work—logistics, details, communication, adjustments—but it’s good work. If you’ve got to work, this is one of the better places to do it.
Still, I’m ready to be home.
I’m ready to sit next to my wife on the couch without a suitcase in sight. We’ve been on the road together for most of the spring, and there’s nothing like knowing we’re heading back home, together, where we belong. I’m ready to hug my kids and be surrounded by people who know me best. I’m looking forward to meals that don’t require a passport and conversations that pick up right where they left off.
I miss my friends. The ones who’ve been there through it all. I’m eager to reconnect, to sit across familiar tables and hear about what’s been going on in their world while I was off gallivanting through someone else’s.
And I can’t wait to walk back into my restaurants. All of them. We’ve got 450 team members across the company, and they’re the ones who keep it all going while I’m away. I miss the sounds of prep in the kitchen, the rhythm of service, the small wins and the big nights. I’m ready to get back to work with the folks who share this calling—to serve with joy, purpose, and pride. I’ll hit the ground running. We’ve got big things ahead.
But first—Popeye’s chicken and a three-piece dark box near gate B-13 in the Atlanta airport. Always my first stop in the U.S. Then it’s home. First morning back, I’ll be at Table 19 in The Midtowner at 7:00 a.m. with a short stack of pancakes, crisp bacon, and spicy hash browns. Same spot, same breakfast, same joy in being back where I belong. My town. My first love. My home.
I’m grateful. For all of it.
Onward.
