February, Noted

Reflections from this month

I’m Renee, a Canadian travel writer behind Dream Plan Experience (a slow travel website about Europe).

Each month, I share a few things that stayed with me—what I noticed, what I read, and what I find myself returning to.

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February was my first full month here, and I didn’t expect to feel this quickly at home.

Not in the way the internet usually works—but in a quieter, more surprising way.

I found myself slowing down when I read, staying longer with certain words, returning to pieces more than once. It felt less like consuming and more like noticing.

I’m beginning to understand this space not as somewhere to keep up, but somewhere to settle into.

So this is something new I want to begin—at the end of each month, a small record of what stayed with me.

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Something I Shared

I keep thinking about my first newsletter.

Not just the piece itself, but how it was received.
Certain lines seemed to land in a way I didn’t expect—

“I don’t need to do anything but notice. Only then do I feel it: I’m back.”

And the responses weren’t about where to go next, but how to be there, like from Beck Sharron.

Questions about intention. About how places are chosen, like from NIAMH FRIEL

Thoughtful readers, thank you. That stayed with me.

I showed up every day with a new Note. One that stood out with this community was:

It may have been the photo that drew people in—but a part of me hopes it was the message about pacing your day.

It did with many of you, I know.

It even sparked new conversations, like when Benthall Slow Travel asked:

“Yes! The empty space is where the nervous system finally exhales. Especially in a place like Pienza — those quiet stone streets don’t need an agenda. They just need time. What surprised you most when you left space in the day?”

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Something I Noticed

February is usually a travel month for me. I had planned to return to Spain, but life needed me to stay close to home.

Instead, I spent the month writing about Italy—and found myself returning in a different way, through memory.

Through the small rituals I always love when I’m in Italy…

• Lingering over a long lunch, ordering il piatto del giorno, or telling the waiter “sono vegetariano, surprise me.”

• An aperitivo, marking the end of the day. That quiet moment of noticing where I am, and letting it be enough.

• The slow walk, passeggiare, before or after dinner through the main street or piazza.

I’ve noticed something similar here, on Substack.

This doesn’t feel like a space built for pace or volume.
It feels like writing meant to be read.

People take their time. They return to pieces. They ask thoughtful questions. They respond in a way that feels considered.

It’s a different kind of presence—one rooted in care, curiosity, and genuine interest in how others see the world.

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Something I Read

Kat took the time to not only read one of my pieces but to offer thoughtful feedback on how I might improve my writing. That kind of attention is rare—and it stayed with me.

I was also excited to read, Parisian Sundays I Marie G., newly published piece in My French Life. One line, in particular, stayed with:

“For centuries, literature has been a core part of French culture… people reading everywhere: in parks, cafés, on terraces, on the metro.”

France: A Country of Readers

It reminded me, I’ve always been the girl with a book in her hand, and it’s only now I’m beginning to understand how that lifelong habit of reading has quietly led me here—to writing, and my love for the city of Paris, where the two have always belonged together.

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So, February, it wasn’t the month I had planned.

But, in its own way, it brought me back—to the rituals I return to, the kind of writing I’ve always wanted to do, and a space that already feels like home.

Maybe returning doesn’t always require going anywhere at all.