The Okanagan Valley isn’t a valley in the classical sense. It’s a long, narrow north–south corridor that runs more than 200 km, terminating hard at the US border.

Geography is everything here.

I had heard the stereotypes: a cold Baltic country with a stoic personality, a complicated history, and a climate far too unforgiving for vinifera.

Take the train east from Geneva and watch as the land begins to fold inward — the mountains closing around the Rhône River like a book being gently shut. This is Valais — Switzerland’s great wine valley — where stone terraces hold centuries of work and the light feels as tangible as the soil itself.

We arrived in Porto under a cloudless sky, wandering into the city with just enough jet lag to feel like drifters. Porto feels like the kind of place that should be a well-kept secret. But it isn’t. And honestly? That’s okay. There’s a reason the world comes here.

I walked this stretch of the Camino de Santiago with my dear friend John—77 years young, owner and winemaker at Poppaea Vineyards in San Diego, and absolutely determined to complete the full pilgrimage. All 777 kilometers. I joined him for the La Rioja section—for the most obvious reason: vino.

A short six-hour flight was all it took to land somewhere that felt like another world — and considerably warmer than the Bay Area. The kind of warmth that hits you before you’ve even found baggage claim.