MILAN—There’s a moment — right before the northern lights appear — when the sky looks like it’s deciding whether, or not, to show you something. Then it does, and you understand why you traveled 4,000 miles. Twenty-five Americans stood beside me in the snow. Nobody spoke. The northern lights don’t require commentary.
The aurora borealis had been on my bucket list for 25 years. To finally witness it—and to share it with friends who had trusted me enough to travel this far from home—made it something more than a checked box.
It made it personal.
Over the course of 10 days, we covered three countries—Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. Of the three, Norway was new to me. We had an after-hours visit to the Royal Opera House in Stockholm with a cocktail reception—just our group, no one else in the building—and a private tour of the Vasa Museum. That’s one of my favorite things to do on these tours. Get my people into places after the crowds have gone, when you can actually breathe and absorb a room.
In Copenhagen, a chef met us with his entire kitchen mounted on a bike. My guests either pedaled electric rickshaws or rode with other guests who were drivers while his crew cooked a five-course lunch on the move, including fresh hen of the woods mushrooms he had foraged and sautéed right there on the street.
Then there was dinner at Savage, a Michelin-starred restaurant I bought out for the evening. An 18-to-20 item multi-course tasting menu with wine pairings that lasted more than three hours. A private Michelin experience on a group tour is something I take a lot of pride in pulling off.
Norway, though. Norway was the showstopper.
The Flåm Railway is one of the most scenic train rides on the planet. We followed that with a boat cruise through the UNESCO-listed Nærøyfjord. Fjords on either side, waterfalls dropping straight into the water. It’s the kind of scenery that makes you feel small in the best possible way.
Over the course of the trip, we ate whale and reindeer. If you’d told me 30 years ago I’d be sitting in the Arctic eating Rudolph with a clear conscience and going back for seconds, I would have questioned your judgment. And mine.
One of my favorite dinners on any trip I’ve ever hosted was the king crab experience at Aera Nord. The crabs were caught right where we were and were swimming minutes before we ate them. No pretense. Just extraordinary product handled simply and served fresh. That’s the kind of food moment I live for.
On our Yonderlust tours over the years we’ve used just about every method of transportation available. Golf carts on the city streets of Rome and Barcelona. E-bikes through northern Italy. Choppers on the levees in the Netherlands. Boats in Venice, Amsterdam, and southern Spain. Four-wheelers on Mount Etna—an active volcano. Vespas through the Prosecco hills of Northern Italy. But the snowmobiles in Norway, I thought, may have topped it all. That is, until the next day when we each took the reins of a dog sled and ran through the frozen tundra above the Arctic Circle. Dogs howling, snow flying, not a building in sight for miles.
People ask me sometimes—don’t you get tired of it? Doing the same thing, trip after trip, year after year?
No. The answer is always no.
The travel business started, as most good things do, by accident. After a lengthy trip with my family in Europe, friends started asking me to take them. I agreed, expecting to do it once. By the end of 2026 I will have hosted over 1,700 guests on more than 70 international trips. When I think about the friendships I never would have made had I not said yes to that first group, I’m so grateful I said yes.
None of it works without the teams in the restaurants back home. My leadership and teams in Hattiesburg run seven concepts, while I’m on the other side of the Atlantic. They don’t just hold down the fort. They improve it while I’m gone. The technology available in 2026 helps—I work on restaurant details every day on the road, in every spare moment—but technology is only as good as the people on the other end.
Someone asked me recently how I juggle the restaurant business with the travel business. Actually, they aren’t two businesses. They’re the same business. It’s all hospitality. It’s reading a room, anticipating a need, getting the details right, and caring enough about the people in front of you to make them feel like they’re the only ones who matter. Whether that’s a couple at a corner table in Hattiesburg or 25 travelers watching the northern lights in Norway, the job is the same.
This year I’m hosting trips to Scandinavia, Portugal, Greece, and Rome with the Amalfi Coast, along with six Tuscan experiences. And here’s some news I’ve been holding onto: I’ll also be hosting a local tour in New Orleans—and by popular demand, actually overwhelming popular demand, a couple of Mississippi tours. If you’ve ever wanted to eat your way through my home state with me as your guide, that’s coming. Stay tuned.
Between groups I landed in London for a few days. My wife was originally joining me, as she always does, but a family medical issue back home required her to stay. I kept London on the schedule for one reason: Fallow.
Fallow is a restaurant that operates as if someone said, “Let’s build a place specifically for Robert St. John.” Casual atmosphere. Creative, upscale food that doesn’t take itself too seriously. A crackerjack team of chefs with Michelin-level skills and zero Michelin-level pretension. No tweezers. No foams on a slate. Just serious cooking by serious cooks who happen to think food should be fun.
I followed those guys on social media for a year before I ever walked in. Last year I finally made it for lunch. My rule when traveling solo or with family: the entire schedule revolves around restaurants I’ve read about, researched, or visited before. There are too many places on the list to visit the same spot twice. But after that first meal at Fallow, I canceled my dinner reservation elsewhere, went back that night, and returned the next day for lunch. Three meals in 36 hours. That never happens. They also run Roe, a sister concept with the same energy and ambition.
Fallow is, to my taste, one of the best restaurants I’ve eaten in anywhere. Period.
As I write this from a hotel room in Milan, getting ready to head south and host another group in Tuscany, I keep thinking about that moment on the tundra. Twenty-five of us, standing in the snow, watching the sky do something none of us had ever seen. Nobody on their phone. Nobody talking. Just a shared silence that meant more than anything I could have said.
That’s what travel does. It puts you in a room—or on a frozen plain—with people you might never have known, and it gives you something to carry home. Not a souvenir. Not a photograph. A memory that belongs to everyone who was there.
It’s all hospitality. It always has been.
Onward.
