Yes, there is the familiar Caribbean image. Turquoise water that almost looks edited. Palms bending toward the shoreline. Sun that kisses your shoulders whether you asked for it or not. That atmosphere lingers whether the sky is brilliant blue or briefly washed in tropical rain.

But beneath that beauty are distinct identities.

Amber Cove showed us how tourism can reshape a community and spark renewal beyond the dock. St. Kitts carried its history along steel rails once used for sugar cane, now repurposed to tell a different story. In Puerto Rico, we saw residents rally to protect their island’s feral cats. In Martinique, we stepped into the historic Bibliothèque Schoelcher, whose ornate details reminded us that Caribbean culture is layered and complex.

Both Mr. Whaldo and I were lucky enough to handle a large female who felt safe with us and rested easily on our arms. We held one together and also separately. The ray I held on my own seemed especially comfortable and lifted her beak onto my chest, as if to get a better look at me. She allowed me to gently boop her before calmly swimming back to her favorite wrangler.

We also had the opportunity to feed them squid, which they happily sucked from our hands. This was another carefully taught lesson, designed to keep us from earning any stingray hickies on our fingers, hands, or arms.

The bus stop was nothing more than a sign on a pole, which should have been our first clue that public transit in Vancouver comes with a side of improvisation. When the bus arrived, we asked how to pay. “Swipe your credit card,” said the driver. I swiped once. When I tried for my husband, it wouldn’t take it. We needed a second card. I had only brought one. Cue the awkward shuffle in a bus packed like sardines and a driver clearly on a tight schedule. He rolled his eyes, handed us tickets, mumbled instructions, and we stood, smiling nervously at strangers as the bus lurched forward.

Alaska’s glaciers are where I first learned to appreciate the beauty in shades of blue, white, and grey ice. It is where I learned to stand quietly and listen to the soft popping deep inside the ice. It is also where I discovered how thrilling it is to witness a glacier calve. There is nothing like watching a massive chunk of ancient, layered ice crack, roar, and break free before splashing into the sea and drifting away as a newborn iceberg. It never stops feeling awe-inspiring.

Ralph showed up at the airport with an extra parka, scarf, waterproof winter boots, and lined mittens. I changed into the boots, and then he quickly got to work. He layered the gear on me, pulled the scarf over most of my face, and cinched the fuzzy-lined hood down tight. The last piece was a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes. We walked toward the door, both of us giggling.

It was gray outside, and I felt a jolt of excitement at finally experiencing Alaska. As we approached the door, I caught my reflection in the glass. I looked like the kid from A Christmas Story, stiff and awkward under all the winter gear. Right before the door opened, Ralph told me to blink often to protect my eyeballs.