When you crack open a list of great travel reads in an esteemed publication like this one, you usually have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to get: books that uncannily bring to life a place or an experience. There’s a very good chance you’ll get a smattering of MFK Fisher, Paul Theroux, and Bruce Chatwin; some iconic American travelogues (On the Road, Travels With Charley, Blue Highways); perhaps the odd title by Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway. Maybe there’ll be a dutiful inclusion of A Passage to India. You’re virtually assured of getting a very good list. But this is not that kind of list.

The other way to think about what constitutes a great travel read is a book that you devoured while on a trip, which you’ll forever associate with that journey. That’s what we want to celebrate here. For me, the experience of reading can be so completely bound up in the place where the reading happened.

Maybe that’s a beach. I read all of Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden on Stinson Beach north of San Francisco one hot August day, and Jeffrey Eugenides’s Middlesex, accompanied by cheap margaritas, in Tulum. Or it could be a hotel room: Jennifer Egan’s A Visit to the Goon Squad will always be the book I read when I couldn’t sleep my first night in Bilbao, the Guggenheim’s ghostly mass visible through my window. Or, of course, a plane or an airport, especially when there’s some kind of delay: I tore through Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi, an incredible invocation of an imaginary place, while flying back and forth between the Ecuadorian mainland and the Galápagos because of bad weather on the islands; recently, stuck for a endless afternoon in a drab corner of Amsterdam Airport Schilphol because of a missed connection, I journeyed to the fraught mountain in Idaho where Tara Westover spent the childhood she describes so grippingly in her extraordinary memoir Educated.

After that, I found myself wanting to know what books other editors of Condé Nast Traveler loved reading while they were somewhere else, and how those reads made them feel. I think you’ll enjoy what they shared as much as I did.

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The Bone People, by Keri Hulme, on a one-way flight from New Zealand

I read Keri Hulme’s inimitable The Bone People the only time I ever left New Zealand on a one-way ticket and it was medicinal. I was 19, the move was by choice, and even still, I was a total wreck. For the entire journey (and honestly, so long afterward…), I grieved that country and my life there pretty deeply. And so I spent 14 hours, most of them overnight, sitting alone in a United cabin, under the vague yellow of an overhead light, as strangers around me slept, transfixed by this brilliant novel, set on the South Island’s West Coast. The story itself—of three complicated, isolated individuals whose lives intertwine—is dark, mesmerizing, and beautiful; Hulme’s words and storytelling were powerful distracters from whatever I was feeling. (Go read this book! It is excellent! It won the Booker Prize!) But it comforted me, too, to read about the country I’d departed, to follow these fictional people instead of fixate on the real ones I already missed, to feel a fresh connection to a place I was leaving behind. In a way I think of that book as a type of bridge between two huge chapters in my life, created entirely in that quiet, anonymous cabin. Which, appropriately, a plane ride can be too. —Erin Florio, executive editor

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One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Marquez, in Latin America

I have never lived and traveled with a book like I did with One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Marquez. It became an appendage of mine because, honestly, it took me so long to push through (I won’t deny there were many side reads along the way). But I will never forget the day when, sitting on the New York City subway, I read the very last line. I closed it and stared blankly across the rocking train. I had followed the Buendía family through generations, and they had followed me through two years (I’m not lying!) of my life. I had lain in a hammock in an Antigua, Guatemala, hacienda, sheltered from an afternoon rainstorm while first reading about the fictional town of Macondo. I had cracked it open to find the town changing urgently while I lounged on an island off Cartagena (my hotel back in the city was just a few steps from one of the author’s). I optimistically toted it to São Paulo, where I read maybe one page over a weekend of inhaling pasteis and choppes with an old friend, only to forget it in her apartment at the end of the trip—I risked missing my flight and ran back to save the paperback, whose cover was now halfway detached (did I mention this book belonged to a friend?). It was an epic journey, to say the least, and while I will never read it again, I’m glad we spent two years traveling together. —Megan Spurrell, senior editor

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1984, by George Orwell, on a sailboat in the British Virgin Islands

I read George Orwell’s 1984 for the first time during a sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands. We had chartered this amazing catamaran, and I spent hours reading on the ship’s trampoline as we navigated between crystal blue shorelines and coral reefs. I remember finally getting to the heartbreaking ending of the book on the last night of the trip and spending at least an hour afterward looking up at the stars in existential grief for Winston and a society in which the act of keeping diaries and thinking rebellious thoughts is criminalized. I still think about this book and this trip often—it’s one of just a few travel experiences where the book and destination are very much entwined in my memories. I think that’s probably because, to me, sailing represents the epitome of freedom and independence, far away from Big Brother’s watchful gaze. Set against the utter lack of freedom in 1984, I felt immensely grateful for the gift of travel, and also more attuned to how things we take for granted (like language, friendship, and books) all contribute to this autonomy in their own ways. —Hannah Towey, associate editor

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Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

Fresh out of college, between jobs, and just a tad overwhelmed, I received a compelling invitation to a private villa in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, to be shared with a friend’s mother and her friends. The stars had just aligned. With my dear friend living in Abu Dhabi and unable to join, there was an extra room in the villa, and she had me in mind. I was so in—how could I not be?

Cowboys are so often depicted like John Wayne—meaning, as a white man on a horse. For a long time, this representation has overshadowed the existence, and importance, of Black cowboys, but in the 19th century, an estimated one in four cowboys was Black. They were often barred from competing against white riders, and went on to form their own rodeos—yet to this day, Black rodeos continue to thrive.

For photographer Ivan McClellan, the Roy LeBlanc Invitational in Oklahoma was a mesmerizing introduction to Black rodeo culture in 2015. He was invited by Charles Perry, director and producer of the documentary The Black Cowboy, and had no idea what to expect. He was instantly hooked. “I really thought I was going to go to that first rodeo and be done,” says McClellan. “But what I saw there, the fashion, the merging of cultures, hip-hop and Western culture and church culture all smashing into each other in a really elegant way, the people that I met, how friendly and open they were, all prompted me to go back again.”

“Women are wearing shirts with fringe on them and their bedazzled jeans and fancy hats,” says the book’s creator, Ivan McClellan. “That reminded me of church. When it’s time to go in front of a crowd, you present yourself as your best.”

Ivan McClellan

He’s been traveling the circuit ever since, documenting the overlooked stories of Black riders in North Carolina, Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Arizona, Nevada, California, and Texas—where I grew up barrel racing in local rodeos. He even founded the Eight Seconds Juneteenth Rodeo in Portland, Oregon, where he lives with his family (it returns for its second year on June 16, 2024; in a venue three times larger than last time, due to demand). The name is a nod to the “eight seconds” which is historically the amount of time a rider must remain on a wildly bucking bull, holding onto the rope without touching the animal or the ground, in order to qualify for a score.

Now, his ongoing study of Black rodeo culture has culminated in a new form: McClellan’s new photography book, Eight Seconds: Black Rodeo Culture. Out April 30, it’s full of images that evoke a bygone era on the open range, but also manages to feel very contemporary. The sport itself has been around a long time, after all—but the Nike tees, sparkling earrings, and Black hairstyles reflect modern tastes, and the faces of those on horseback and in the crowd are increasingly young.

Below, McClellan tells us about his memories behind the photos in his brand new book.

On the first of many runs to Collines, I pick up freshly-prepared tapenade, local walnuts, and La Tomme de la Brigue—an aromatic, almost vegetal cheese made with Brigasque sheep’s milk that I first fell in love with on an earlier research trip to Tende, in the Roya Valley. It’s the inspiration for our first workday lunch in the house—a quick green salad with a garlicky dressing paired with the aforementioned tomme and walnuts—before we step into our temporary offices. Laila has claimed the dining room table, overlooking the long, stone-covered terrace outside.

I set up in the kitchen, as I will every day going forward, and empty my market bags onto the wooden counters until they overflow with local produce, eggs, honey, baguettes, braids of garlic, and bottles of Provençal wine and olive oil. I grab a pair of scissors from the wall and pop just outside the backdoor to the terraced garden. There are tidy lines of herbs to clip, radishes to pull, and small, bright kumquats to snack on. It’s a cook’s garden and sparser in the winter, certainly, but impossibly lush by my bare-pots-of-herbs-on-a-Parisian-balcony standards. Back inside, I embark on developing an egg-rich brioche for La Tropézienne and begin scrubbing vegetables for Daube Provençal.

As the linen-covered bowl of dough slowly rises on a stool in the corner and the combination of onions, carrots, beef, and red wine simmers gently on the stovetop, I grab a bowl of potato chips and leave the fragrant, quickly approaching clichéd, Provençal scene to regroup with Laila outside for apéro on the terrace. In summer months, this same terrace overlooking the pool below is coated in lush greenery, the long table shielded in dappled light; today, the winter sun grows the shadows long on our glasses (I’m sipping a gin and sherry cocktail that later makes its way into the book as the Martini Provençal). I note the time, take a sip, and text Joann Pai, the book’s photographer, who will be arriving later in the month to shoot. This is the light I want to capture when she arrives.

The next morning—and each one that follows—is spent writing. My writing routine is the same with every book: wake up early, light candles, make coffee. But pre-sunrise in the Provençal countryside hits differently than those at home in Paris. The house and its surrounding landscape are blanketed in a darkness so complete that it’s disorienting. I fumble my way to the kitchen with my computer and I open the refrigerator to take in my first, slumped attempt at a Tarte Tropézienne. Last night’s test was a fail: the brioche too dry, the pastry cream too thin, seeping from the sides and onto the platter beneath. It’s the kitchen and its former inhabitant’s well-documented tenacity that inspires me to mark up the recipe and start measuring flour anew, as my coffee silently brews.

Later that day, I hop in the car and drive to Antibes in search of a specific slice of pissaladière we ate on a research trip last summer. It’s still there, at the boulangerie just down the street from the marché, the crusty, oily (in a good way), nearly burnt (also in a good way) caramelized onion and olive-topped slice exactly how I remember it: an ideal afternoon snack, and an ideal inspiration for the the recipe I’ll write for le SUD.

This combination of the familiar and the new, as I breathe the air of the place I’m writing about, allows me to connect to the material in a way that is deeply invigorating—somehow, I barely resent those 5 a.m. writing wake-ups.

In the following weeks, I make steady progress on the headnotes that weave together the book; style, shoot, and eat with my team on those produce-studded countertops (we are later also joined by photography assistant Kate Devine and kitchen assistant Lise Kvan); steadily line the teal shuttered window outside the living room with our emptied bottles; make multiple imperfect Tropéziennes—none worthy of ink on the page—and absolutely nail recipes for garlic roast chicken, pissaladière, and candied kumquats.

It won’t be until I’m back home in Paris that I finalize both the manuscript and the recipe for La Tropézienne that now lives on page 232 of the book. But the spirit of my time in le Sud is in every bite.

Though the 2024 roster won’t be published until June 25, one event that’s already been announced should give you a sense of the festival’s importance: the German premiere of Salman Rushdie’s new memoir, Knife, scheduled for the lead-up. The other early announcement: Helon Habila’s appointment at the festival’s first Curator in Residence. A Nigerian-American writer whose accolades include the Caine Prize for African Writing, Habila sees this role as an expansion of the festivals’ global appeal.

Where to stay: Sir Savigny, in a historic literary quarter of Berlin, offers book-lined public spaces—not least, a library where you can play chess, sip coffee or simply settle in with a good book.

Macondo Literary Festival and the Nairobi International Book Fair

September 22-24; Sep 25-Sep 29, respectively

These back-to-back festivals in Nairobi are turning the city into an exceptional literary stop at a time of year when many travelers already plan to be in Kenya for the Great Migration through the nation’s wilderness. First up is the Macondo Literary Festival, which focuses on African histories from an African perspective. The theme for the 2024 edition, The Sea is History, aims to bring together African authors who write in Arabic, English, French, Portuguese, and Spanish with counterparts from the Indian Ocean. Among the first big names to be announced is the celebrated Nigerian novelist Chigozie Obioma, and though many more writers will be added in the coming months, the festival also celebrates cinema and music—and takes place largely at the Kenya National Theatre. Serious book lovers should stick around for the festival that starts the day after Macondo ends: The Nairobi International Book Fair, a regional marketplace for publishing professionals, authors, booksellers, media, and readers from across Africa and the world. Last year’s edition made news with the first international publishing rights fair in East Africa, the goal being a smoother pathway for African writers who’d like to be published domestically and around the world. Watch this space for additional details at the date approaches.

Where to stay: Fairmont Norfolk Hotel, a partner of the Macondo Festival, has historically welcomed all kinds of dignitaries, literary and otherwise.

The Buenos Aires International Book Fair’s location in a UNESCO World Book Capital, with a protected literary café scene,

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The Buenos Aires International Book Fair

April 23-May 13

Because we keep having our stories told in other tongues and in other mouths. People keep telling our stories for us, and they frankly keep getting it wrong. The cost of that isn’t just a matter of semantics or ego. The cost of it is that you end up having entire swaths of people being dehumanized. The shifts that I’d like to see are around people interrogating what language they use when they describe certain communities.

I’ve been reading your work for years now, and I felt like The Moon that Turns You Back was grittier than your other collections. Would you agree?

Definitely. It’s probably something to do with getting older. The writing becomes more honest. With the first couple of poetry books, I was being inventive with language and finding coy ways to say a thing without really saying the thing. Now I’m less scared of just saying the thing. It’s also stylistically more experimental. I’m not someone that usually thinks about form. This is the first collection where I thought, I’m going to just play. It felt more inventive.

The subject of home is so present in your writing. What represents home for you today?

My daughter, honestly. There’s a home that you build in the bond between a caregiver or parent and a child. That is a place where you start thinking of [home] bi-directionally. I’m building a home in that way, but also, she’s building a home. She’s getting a home built through me and in me.

Are there people or places that you find community in?

So much of the community building I’ve been part of has been in people’s living rooms. It’s also been in spaces of poetry. Places of gathering, places of protest, places of teach-ins, and places of education have felt communal and heart-lifting. This moment is really calling upon people to show up in different ways. For specific restaurant spots, there’s Ayat, Al Badawi, and Balady in New York City. In regard to storytellers, Cherien Dabis, Rama Duwaji, Zeina Hashem Beck, Sarah Aziza, and Darine Hotait.

How do you find joy during these challenging times?

So much of my joy these days has come from mothering. It also comes from community. The [book launch] reading was an example of that, or whenever there have been gatherings. It’s come in thinking about ways to show up and surround myself with people who genuinely care about liberatory practices. I have gotten a lot of joy (and guilt) in nesting activities and enveloping myself in my home and my space. I’m sure that’s connected with the fact that I’m watching so many people be dispossessed from their land and from their houses. It’s made me so aware of the things that I have.

How will you be in channeling that energy in the coming months?

I’m working on a memoir about the months leading up to my daughter’s birth. It’s going to be a look at fertility, motherhood, and lineage; what we pass on and what we inherit.

We’re also going to Dublin. I’ve always wanted to go. I’m just fascinated with the culture. There’s so much beautiful art and writing that’s come out of Ireland. Also, there’s a lot of solidarity between the Irish and Palestinian people. I’m excited to visit a place that’s been so unwavering in its support for Palestinian freedom and life.

All products featured on Condé Nast Traveler are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission.

All products featured on Condé Nast Traveler are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission.

Coffee table books are my achilles heel. I live in a modestly-sized apartment in Boston where space comes at a premium, but I will never deny myself the joy of a beautiful travel-inspired tome. I’ll collect them until my shelves are full, until they serve as impromptu nightstands, until every kitchen cabinet overfloweth and, yes, until they cover my coffee table itself. I simply can’t stop collecting them, and the books given to me by others are especially nostalgic—is there any gift more elegant?

A good travel coffee table book not only inspires with its contents, but also offers aesthetic appeal (hence why they’re all over my home), and serves as a conversation starter. They’re a beautiful gift, and a symbol that travel isn’t necessarily a checklist of places you’ve been, but a state of mind about how you choose to live. Have I been to Greece? Not yet. But am I willing to fill my home with books about its ancient ruins and sun-drenched isles? Absolutely.

If you’re looking for some of the best travel coffee table books out there to give (or to receive) this holiday season and beyond, here’s where to start.

This article has been updated with new information since its original publish date. Additional reporting by Megan Spurrell.

J: She said, ‘I speak three languages: English, Spanish, and motherfucker.’ She had a voice you could hear like the subway was pulling into the platform.

K: She was this elderly white woman in this neighborhood that had changed in its ethnic makeup, and she really cared about the community. In the early 2000s she still sold candy for a penny. You could get a can of soda for 25 cents. She told me she didn’t care about making a profit, but she did care about the neighborhood.

J: She had a big lazy boy chair behind the counter where she would sit and watch TV, and this cat would be sleeping in the Tootsie Rolls. One time she almost got robbed, and she says the kids came in and duct-taped her to her chair.

K: They had masks on, but she saw their eyes and recognized them and said, ‘Forget about the police, wait until I tell your mother and your father and your grandmother about this!’ They untied her real quick. It just summed up Katy and the whole store. In the photo, you can see a payphone that people would use, a coffee someone didn’t finish, and a rope—people would use that as a pulley to lift groceries up to older residents in the apartments above.

J: Eventually, the landlord forced her out. He wanted to beautify the building. Katy got sick when the store closed, and died shortly after.

Are there any neighborhoods that seem to be escaping the fate of small businesses like Katy’s Candy?

K: The East Village and Lower East Side have a preponderance of mom-and-pop stores. They may not be in business for a long time, but they seem to survive because there’s so many tiny old tenement buildings and the groundfloor storefronts are very small. Unless a developer comes in and buys multiple buildings and knocks them all down—like on A and B street, they did that, and now it’s a condo with high-end rentals, Target, and Trader Joe’s. But even though there’s new development, there’s a good amount of mom-and-pop stores that will stay because there are too many people who won’t sell their buildings. That’s a neighborhood we can always count on. It’s why we moved here in the first place.

J: When we moved here, we had no money, and window shopping was our past time. Bookstores and record stores, art gallery openings and impromptu concerts, you could just wander in and out and it was free.

Beyond the East Village, if a tourist wanted to follow your book to stores like those pictured, where would you send them?

K: The Bronx. Because even though it’s now gentrified, and a lot of Italians that once lived there have moved, there’s still a stronghold of Italian small businesses. Everyone goes to Arthur Avenue, which does have a lot of small shops, but there’s a lot on the side streets too. We included Addeo & Sons in the book. There’s actually two locations but one is off Arthur Avenue, where they do the baking on [2372] Hughes Avenue. You cannot go to New York and not get their pane di casa, or their lard bread with flecks of prosciutto in it. When we go, our intention is to bring a couple loaves home.