Hello from Room 312 at the Apres hotel in Whitefish, Montana. Late Sunday morning. High of 91 degrees with low humidity and hot sun high above the desolate Rocky Mountains in this remote part of the lower 48 states. 

For most people, the word “snorkeling” conjures images of blue Caribbean waters, pink coral reefs and a rainbow of tropical fish. But witnessing a world of aquatic beauty doesn’t require a flight to the Florida Keys.

Hello from 36,000 feet above the Midwest on this otherwise quiet Monday afternoon.

In France, the price of service in a restaurant is included in the bill and the servers are paid roughly about 15% of your total ticket. If you feel the service was excellent and you want to add a little extra, 5% of your tab can be left on the table. I wish I had had this tidbit of information before I ate my first meal out in town. We had a discussion in class about restaurants, ordering and how the French menu is laid out. What we did not discuss was the well-known fact amongst the French that the service is always included in the price of the meal.

I recently watched a video of Carolyn Myss discussing how guidance works. She shared how she returned from teaching overseas and walked into her New Hampshire farmhouse only to feel that she could no longer live there. This house had been her home for ten years. Without taking her coat off, in twenty-two minutes flat, she had arranged for a neighbor to help her pack, her brother to fly down and drive a moving van, and asked her mother if she could stay with her until she decided where her next home would be.

Hello from Room 827 at the Marriott Town Center in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. The outside temperature is dropping, all while soft snowflakes cascade by the hotel window onto the cold pavement below. 

Hello from Room 128 at the Red Roof Inn in Hardeeville, South Carolina, just north of the Georgia state line off Interstate 95. It’s 10:01 a.m. Yesterday, I awoke in Room 208 at the Hampton Inn outside of Lake Wales, Florida.

I had about an hour window of no rain before the remnants of the tropical storm would slowly, but surely, slide into the North Country. The clouds were already darkening above the Adirondack Mountains as the nose of the truck was aimed west, heading out from my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, New York. 

Hello from Room 307 at the Hilton Garden Inn amid the coastal community of Monterey, California. It’s 11 a.m. and I have a flight to catch from San Francisco to Atlanta later tonight. But, for now? I figured I’d wander up the along the Pacific Coast Highway, ole Route 1, en route to SFO for that 10:50 p.m. takeoff. 

Editor’s Note: While on assignment for Rolling Stone out in Monterey, California, last weekend, Garret decided to hang out in San Francisco for a couple of days beforehand, just to hit the ground runnin’ and once again feel the vibe of the city he missed. The following is what he felt, and wrote about, in real time.