By Faith
I’m Faith, and I work at Nomad Africa. The other day, I was talking with my colleagues about romantic experiences, what makes a moment or a trip feel romantic, and which gestures matter. Everyone had different answers. Some said adventure and surprise. Others said luxury and beautiful settings. Someone mentioned candlelit dinners and thoughtful planning.
And somewhere in that conversation, I started thinking less about romance and more about connection. Because I’m not sure those two things are always the same.
I have a daughter, and what I’ve learned about connection, especially through travel, is that it rarely looks the way we’re told it should.
Last year, my daughter and I spent a week in Malindi. I didn’t plan much beyond booking where we’d stay. No packed itinerary, no list of must-see spots. Just a week at the coast with nowhere we had to be. And to this day, she still talks about it. She remembers swimming together. Building sandcastles that the tide would wash away. Ice creams we’d eat slowly while the sun set. Beach walks where she’d collect shells and I’d carry them in my pockets. She doesn’t remember the hotel or the restaurants we chose. She remembers us being together. Fully there. Unhurried.
That trip taught me something about what travel can create when you let it breathe. These days, her favorite journey is the drive home to Nakuru. Not just because of where we’re going, but because she gets to see animals by the road. We let her identify them by name, zebra, giraffe, cow…. And for the ones she can’t name yet, she tries to make their sounds instead.
When she was two, we took her to see animals at a shelter. We spent the afternoon trying to teach her the names. She’s four now, and she still brings it up. It’s become our ritual. No schedule. No destination we’re rushing to reach. Just the road, the animals, and her excitement every single time.
I think about this when I plan trips now. The moments she’ll carry with her aren’t the impressive experiences I tick off a list. They’re the ones where we’re simply present together.
Itineraries are definitely great. They give structure, they ensure you don’t miss what matters, they create a framework for adventure. But I wonder if we’ve started to believe that a perfect itinerary equals a perfect trip. That the right experiences, carefully planned and thoughtfully curated, guarantee connection.
Because presence isn’t about effort. It’s about attention. In Malindi, the moments that mattered weren’t the ones I orchestrated. They were the ones that simply happened because we had space for them. Mornings where we ate breakfast slowly, with nowhere to rush to. Afternoons where the only decision was whether to swim now or later. Evenings where I sat by the water while my daughter played nearby, the kind of unhurried time that gets lost in our regular lives.
Travel, at its best, creates space for that. Not because of where you go, but because of what you let go of when you get there.
Because that’s what I’ve learned meaningful travel looks like. Whether you’re in Malindi or on a familiar road to Nakuru. Whether you’re planning a once-in-a-lifetime trip or just driving home. It’s not about the destination or the itinerary. It’s about being fully there, wherever you are.
And that, I think, is harder and more valuable than any perfect plan I could come up with.