A Mischievous Guide to Wandering America

I have long believed that travel in America is both a privilege and a comedy. It is a stage where the grand landscapes play the serious roles, and the travelers—myself included—fumble about with cameras, maps, and hopeful smiles, as if we might somehow direct the scenery. Let us be honest: the country is too large to be swallowed in a single bite. So, one must nibble at it, state by state, city by city, like a buffet at which every dish insists upon being the main course.

This is not a brochure promising you the ten best places to stand with your hands on your hips, squinting into the sunset. Rather, it is an unpolished notebook of where I went, what I saw, and how I nearly ruined my shoes in Yellowstone. Take it as you would advice from a relative you both trust and suspect of exaggeration.

Chapter I: New York, Where Walking Is an Olympic Sport

New York City is less a city and more a nervous system that refuses to sleep. I arrived with the intention of "doing everything" and left proud that I had managed to do "something." The first lesson: New Yorkers walk like they are training for speed-walking championships. If you stop in the middle of a sidewalk, you will be gently but firmly reminded of the rules by a thousand irritated footsteps behind you.

What to see? The obvious: Central Park, Times Square, the museums. But the true flavor of New York hides in its bagels, bodegas, and subway musicians who play with more conviction than most orchestras.

Avoidance Tip: Don’t fall for the trap of the overpriced rooftop bar that claims to offer “the only true view of Manhattan.” Every tall building has a view. Instead, head for Roosevelt Island by tram—it’s cheaper, quieter, and the city looks more honest from there.

Chapter II: Chicago, A City That Invented Wind and Pizza

Chicago greets you with a chill that feels personal, even in spring. The lake is so large it looks like an ocean pretending to be modest. The architecture is noble and stubborn, steel rising from a history that burned and rebuilt.

Do eat the deep-dish pizza. Do not argue with locals about whether it is “real” pizza. They will win the argument with sheer passion. Stroll along the riverwalk, visit the Art Institute, and if you’re lucky, catch jazz in a basement bar where the walls sweat history.

Avoidance Tip: Don’t underestimate distances. Chicago blocks look deceptively small on the map. Trust me: your legs will plot revenge. Carry a light travel backpack; your shoulders will thank you after the fifth mile.

Chapter III: Yellowstone, A Park That Smells of Sulfur and Awe

Yellowstone National Park is America’s love letter to geology. It is also a place where bison roam with the confidence of landlords. The geysers sputter, steam rises, and you realize that the earth beneath you is not as stable as you once believed.

What to see? Old Faithful, of course, but also the less famous geysers that bubble and hiss with personality. The Grand Prismatic Spring looks like someone spilled a painter’s palette across the earth.

Avoidance Tip: Never, under any temptation, try to pet the bison. They are not cows. They are 2,000-pound reminders that nature is in charge. Bring sturdy shoes, layered clothing, and patience. Cell service will vanish; embrace it.

Chapter IV: San Francisco, A City of Hills and Fog

The hills will humble you. San Francisco was not built for the flat-footed. You climb one street only to descend into another, as though the city is playing a private game of snakes and ladders. The Golden Gate Bridge, when swallowed by fog, looks less like an engineering marvel and more like a secret disappearing act.

Ride the cable cars once, for the charm; then use your legs, for the economy. Visit Chinatown for dim sum, Mission District for murals, and the Ferry Building for food that will destroy your budget but not your memory.

Avoidance Tip: Do not rent a car unless you enjoy parking fees that rival hotel rates. Public transit, your feet, and a decent travel backpack will serve you better.

Chapter V: The Grand Canyon, Where Silence Is a Language

The Grand Canyon is not something you “see.” It is something you stand before, baffled, while your vocabulary files for bankruptcy. Photographs are cruel here—they compress grandeur into postcard proportions. Standing at the South Rim at sunrise, I felt a mix of smallness and delight.

What to do? Hike part of the Bright Angel Trail, but don’t be a fool and attempt the bottom-and-back-in-a-day unless you are part mountain goat. Bring water, snacks, and humility.

Avoidance Tip: The canyon is not a place for flip-flops and bravado. I watched one poor soul limp back with blistered feet and regret written across his face. Prepare as though the canyon wants to test you—because it does.

Epilogue: The Traveler’s Bag of Tricks

If this notebook has a moral, it is that America is too varied to be conquered in a single journey. One must return, again and again, and each time the country shifts its expression. From the jazz of New Orleans to the red stone of Arizona, from the steam of Yellowstone to the steel of Chicago, every stop whispers something different.

But across it all, two lessons endure. First, never underestimate the power of carrying the right bag. A dependable travel backpack is more than luggage—it is a confidant that holds your chaos in order. Second, avoid being seduced by schedules so tight they strangle your joy. Leave gaps for accidents, for laughter, for getting lost.

I carried a Witzman bag on much of this journey. It did not complain when I stuffed it with souvenirs or when I dragged it across subway turnstiles. It bore my clumsiness with more dignity than I did. And if you ask me what I most recommend for wandering America, I would say: go with patience, humor, and a bag that behaves like a friend.