I Always Check The Pool

There's a question I ask before booking almost any accommodation: what does the pool look like?

Not because I'm particular about tile patterns or lounge chair arrangements, but because I've learned something about myself over years of travel. No matter where I am, from a rental in Spain to a cruise ship crossing the Aegean, the pool is where I find my center. Some travelers seek out yoga studios or running trails. I seek water.

Travel, for all its wonder, can be disorienting. New languages, new currencies, new beds that never quite feel like yours. But water? Water behaves the same everywhere. It holds you the same way. It's not just about fitness, though the laps help. It's about the ritual. The rhythm of breathing and stroke. And in that consistency, there's comfort.

I've come to think of swimming as carrying the familiar with me. It's the one part of my routine that translates across time zones and cultures. Whether I'm adjusting to jet lag in Tokyo or unwinding after a day exploring Moroccan markets, thirty minutes in a pool recalibrates everything. My mind quiets. My body remembers itself.

It starts as routine, but it doesn’t always stay private. The pool has become one of the easiest places to slip into real conversation.

There's something about shared space and shared ritual that opens conversation. Maybe it's because everyone's guard is down. You're in a swimsuit, after all. Pretense doesn't survive poolside. Some chats end with the towel shake and a nod goodbye. Others surprise you and stick. Over the holidays in Ontario (Canada) the pool delivered exactly what travel rarely promises: an easy, genuine connection. I met J and P at the hotel pool—two warm, down-to-earth people who were in town visiting their daughter. They recently retired and, as of last year, had relocated to Nova Scotia. Within minutes, we were doing that quiet, very Canadian thing where small talk turns into real talk without anyone announcing it.

We found common ground fast. Dogs, for one, especially because we’d traveled with our chorkie for the first time, snow and plane included, like we were all just out here collecting new life skills. And then there was the place itself. J was born and raised in the Etobicoke district, and I’ve been coming back to the west end of Toronto to visit family for well over 25 years. We ended up swapping observations about how quickly everything’s grown—how familiar streets can feel almost unrecognizable after a few years away.

J gave me an impromptu history lesson on the popular Sherway Gardens mall—back when it was tied to Sheridan Nurseries—and pointed out the backroads from her childhood like she was walking me through a personal map. I told them about our trip through the Maritimes beginning in Quebec, where P is from, and how much we loved it (Charlottetown, Sydney, Halifax). The kind of places that feel both grounded and quietly proud of themselves. And of course, we talked about water. Not in a “vacation lifestyle” way, but in the simple way swimmers talk: how it resets you, how it steadies your head, how your body remembers what to do before your brain catches up.

The conversation drifted where good ones do—into the broader mood of the moment, touching on U.S.–Canada relations, AI (they both have solid tech backgrounds), wellness, then widening into life more generally before easing back to lighter ground. That’s what I appreciated most. It wasn’t dramatic. It was layered. The kind of exchange that reminds you travel can still be human-sized: three people, a shared rhythm, and a surprisingly good conversation between laps.

There’s wellness in that, too. Not the “spa day” kind, more like the quiet relief of crossing paths with your kind of people on an unhurried holiday morning. Swimming keeps me grounded while I roam. It gives me solitude when I want it, and community when it shows up. And if I’m lucky, I’ll run into J and P again somewhere down the line—same lane, same rhythm, another good conversation waiting at the edge of the pool.

So yes, I check the pools. Not because I'm high maintenance, but because I've learned what sustains me. And if there's one thing travel has taught me, it's that knowing what centers you, and honoring it wherever you go, isn't indulgent. It's essential.