Someone in my DMs just asked: "Is Chongqing worth visiting?" Let me tell you about the last time I took a client there. We arrived at night. Stepped out of the airport, and she stopped dead. The entire city was glowing — skyscrapers built into mountains, lights reflecting off the river, bridges crisscrossing in every direction. She said: "This looks like a movie set." Next morning we ate noodles at a tiny shop my friend runs. Bowl of chongqing xiaomian — 8 yuan, and she said it was the best thing she'd eaten in China. That afternoon we took the Yangtze River cable car across the city. She was pressed against the window taking videos the whole way. At dinner she asked me: "Why don't more tourists come here?" Good question. I don't know either. But my clients do.

Monday tomorrow. Both kids have school, I have three trip proposals to finish, and somewhere in between I need to buy groceries and figure out what a 7-year-old means by "I need yellow socks for the school play." Some weeks feel like a juggling act. But I wouldn't trade this life for anything. Here's to a good week ahead — for all of us juggling our own versions of yellow socks.

Food tip for this week: if you see a restaurant with a plastic curtain at the door, plastic stools, and a crowd of locals eating with their heads down — go in. That's where the good stuff is. Not the place with English menus and laminated photos. I've eaten at ¥800-a-person banquets that I forgot the next day, and I've had ¥12 bowls of noodles from a street stall that I still think about years later. Trust the plastic stools.

A client once asked me: "Why do you do this? Isn't planning other people's trips exhausting?" I laughed because... yes, sometimes it is. But then I get a photo of a family on the Great Wall at sunrise, or a message that says "my kids still talk about the hotpot night," and I remember why. I don't sell tickets. I help people make memories they'll carry home. That's the part no booking platform can do.