Corfu Day 5: Embracing change and living with 'less' led to alot 'more'

Dinner last night at Cucina di Bonetti, Corfu, Greece

When I packing for Corfu, I didn’t feel brave, even though I have done this ‘living out of country’ bit several times now in 3 years. I felt a little scared. But the truth is, three years ago, I decided it was time for something different, something bigger.

I’m in my 50s. I’ve spent my 20s, 30s, and 40s waking up at 2:30am to be on the news by 5am. For CBS, I got up at 1am! Then building a business, a home, and a life with Matt. But at some point, it all started to feel heavy—not bad, just predictable. It was like I was living the same Tuesday on repeat. So I traded the security for 1 suitcase, a backpack, and a dream I couldn’t fully explain: to see the world slowly, intentionally, every quarter for 10-15 days. Alone. I’m a Sagittarius. I like my security. But I also need to be free. I was just determined to squeeze every drop of meaning from my time left on this earth.

But as much as I research where I am going to death, I still feel a little scared each time I leave Brooklyn.

My view as I had dinner at Cucina di Bonetti, Corfu

The Leap

The decision to live in another country every quarter didn’t come overnight. It began as a whisper—a coveting each time a friend talked about “moving to London” or “Spending 4 weeks in Europe.” But as I journaled each day, “What do I want?” the whisper grew louder, and soon, I found myself thinking more and more about my grandma in Calcutta.

She was a great beauty. The family kept her in the back so when suitors for marriage came calling for her sisters, the would be groom didn’t pick her instead. One day, there was a debt to settle. And Suchitra was married at 15 to my grandpa who was 30. He was a promising gastroenterologist in Tollygunge and gave her a great life, never wanting for anything.

“I had 3 kids by the time I was in my 20s,” she mused in Bengali, as the sunlight dappled on her aging face. “By 35, I realized I had missed seeing the world.” She would sit in the sun as it streamed through the iron wrought paisleys of her terrace, and read the newspaper each morning with great intensity.

It would be her small way to travel the world.

That truth haunted me. It reminded me we were all waiting too long—for the right time. For the right amount of money. For the mythical “right time” that never arrives.

So, 3 years ago, I stopped waiting.

I built a business around my top values (adventure and beauty). As my self worth grew, my pricing reflected it. Someone in New York the other day asked me, “Don’t you go to brunch anymore?” I had traded eating out nonstop in New York for health and to save for travel.

My first quarterly sabbatical was Paris for 3 weeks. I started small. I rented an Airbnb in the Marais. I swapped Wegman’s grocery delivery for trips to the Bastille market for fresh vegetables. I swapped 100 dollar/per person dinners for quiche and fries for 15 bucks at the local. I traded ubering to yoga to winding and walking through Canal St. Martin to explore different yoga studios each day. At first, it was unnerving. I didn’t know Paris. I, the perennial planner, had no plan beyond the next yoga class, and I didn’t even know if I’d like it.

But in the stillness, something shifted. I was living with less—and somehow feeling more.

Bougainvilla at the entrance of Cucina di Bonetti

Moments That Changed Me

Travel didn’t just change how I saw the world—it changed how I moved through it.

Here in Corfu, I wake to the sound of birds, the air thick with the smell of bougainvilla and the Ionian sea—a simplicity that feels more profound than anything I know at home. I’ve learned to say “good morning” in Greek, buy super fresh eggs with a yellowest of yolks at the supermarket and carry them home myself to my apartment, and sit quietly by the sea. My host said, “That’s it?” When I rolled up wtih my one suitcase and backpack. With just 1 suitcase, I feel lighter—physically and emotionally—than I have in years.

In Lisbon, post surgery, I traveled slowly through neighborhoods instead of tourist attractions. I drank coffee with the old men on the block at the Levateria, ate dinner while chatting with the Brazilian couple who opened the restaurant next door, and got lost in the cobblestoned streets more times than I could count. “Are you on vacation?” Everyone asks.

“No just living and working differently. Life at a slower pace.”

In Spain, I bought a last minute ticket to the opera for 38 euro on a Tuesday night, savoring Vivaldi from the last seat in the theater. In Paris, I bought cheese and bread to sit along the Seine, watching the boats pass by, letting my feet dangle over the concrete lip of the River. It was there that I truly understood the beauty of unhurried living—the way the French do it so effortlessly.

Not every moment went as planned. One night, a mouse got into my apartment and was ravaging my rice cakes I brought from New York. I freaked the F*** out and called the owner. But I will always remember that moment.

Turns out, the best memories aren’t the ones I plan. They’re the ones that catch me by surprise and remind me how adaptable—and deeply human—we all are.

The menu. This restaurant is 400 feet from my apartment.

What I Gave Up—and Gained

The hardest part? It’s not the long flights, the unfamiliar languages, or even the money. It’s missing my friends.

Deep relationships I’ve spent years building.

Sometimes, I get lonely, looking at couples and friends laughing over a bottle of wine.

But I chose this life. And in exchange, I’ve gained something precious: presence.

Without the noise of a busy life, I listen better—to my clients and to myself. My mornings are slow, full of yummy coffee and sunlight. I’m joyful more in the past 5 days here in Corfu. I stress less. I marvel more.

I’ve also redefined what “home” means. It’s not a zip code or a mortgage. Home is wherever I feel peace—sitting in this beautiful courtyard in Corfu, surrounded by plants and writing this piece for you. Wondering how I ever lived so small in such a big, beautiful world.

Matt comes later this month. My clients come next week. I won’t totally be alone.

Cucina only has 2 outdoor tables.

Living With Intention at Home

Coming home briefly to New York in between reminds me of how much I’ve changed. Where once I rushed through errands, appointments, and the usual whirlwind of daily life, I now approach these moments with more intention. When I’m with friends, I listen intentionally. I’m WAY more thoughtful about what I buy off Amazon. What I prioritize. What I eat. And how I spend my time. I’ve learned that the quality of time matters far more than the quantity. My travels taught me that life is about the interstitial moments and now, I bring that mindset home, making every day feel just a little more meaningful.

The Ionian sea at sundown

The Life I Didn’t Know I Was Waiting For

This isn’t just a story about travel—it’s about permission. The kind you give yourself to start over at any age. To trade comfort for curiosity. To realize it’s never too late—or too expensive—to choose a life that finally feels like yours.

I love New York. Its ambition. It’s drive. Its intensity. I’m an intense person, after all. I worked until 3am last night because I had a meeting scheduled for 630-8pm EDT. But I have downsized the pressure, the pace, and the expectations that once defined me. As a Type A person, it wasn’t easy at first, but letting go of those old definitions of success made room for something more meaningful: joy, growth, and a deeper connection to myself. Space.

What I’ve learned is that the life I was truly waiting for wasn’t found in a place or in things—it was found in the choice to live with intention, to say "yes" to what truly matters, and to embrace the uncertainty.

Cause, I’ll figure it out.

I would tell you who this is, but it’s all Greek to me.