Not long ago, I went to the Lake District in England to hike as much as possible, and to put as much literal distance as I could between myself and a job that had become the kind of bad fit that involves a surfeit of tears and cursing. (I say that, P.S., having just screamed “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK” after spilling a plastic tray of “hors d’oeuvres” of turkey, olives and cheese on the floor and knowing I couldn’t avoid cleaning it up, which I would have if I could have.)

Anyway: the Lake District. It is fucking beautiful, and it is a really, really good place to be if you like hiking, by yourself. The “by yourself” part is key, because I do like to do it, but not more than I dislike being attacked by drug addicts in the forest. The Lake District is like Disney World for English “walkers” (LOL: not zombies), and one of the best things about it, besides its beauty, is the fact that you’re never alone for long, which is convenient if, like me, you also do not like criminals, especially on deserted trails, far from a phone signal and policepeople.

On my second day there (third day: the actual second day, it rained an inch and a half), I was hiking a mountain known as Helm Crag. I like to hike alone, and I like to hike fast, because it makes me feel like a bad ass, like Linda Connor in Terminator. (More or less.) At one point, on a series of steps (steps, not switchbacks, because the English are so English about things sometimes) I passed a man, maybe in his 60s, talking to a couple. See you later, I thought. Not long after, he passed me. Well, I thought. That’s just fine. The steps were steep, and he was fast.

I took 20 minutes at the summit to take pictures, so the next time I spotted him, he was probably a quarter-mile ahead of me, eating his lunch (as it turned out, a sandwich and a protein bar.) I caught up. “You’re moving pretty good,” he said. He didn’t seem like a rapist, so I talked to him. His name was Tony. He was 78, and he and his wife came to the Lake District every autumn to walk as much as possible. He did Helm Crag first, he said, to get a sense of how well he was moving, relative to years past. Also, he was breaking in some new waterproof boots.

Because I was far from home and alone and he seemed non-violent, I fell in step with him—a fortunate thing, since the trail markings on the top of the ridge we were following were next to non-existant, rubbed out by mud and sheep with no concern for our navigation problems. (Without him, I would have ended up like I would a few days later, on another ridgeline, walking miles out of my way and only finding my path home when, from above, I spotted a particularly distinct-looking tarn I had hiked to the previous day.) I let him talk, and he was well worth listening to. He and his wife lived in York. He had lived in Nigeria in his 20s and played semi-professional rugby when not racing horses. He worked for a women’s clothing store and attended fashion fairs in Frankfurt and Barcelona. (“See! That’s something else we have in common!” when we realized that we both sort of worked in fashion, after concluding that his wife Ann and I had roughly the same endocrinological problem.) After nimbly crossing a stream on a succession of flat, wet rocks, he shook his head when I stubbornly stuck my feet directly into the water: no slipping that way. Slipping on a rock was my biggest fear in the Lake District, since everything was wet, all the time, and on my own, it could leave me stuck where I fell, for God knew how long. He quickened our pace when I told him I needed to be back in my cottage to begin working at the start of the U.S. workday. When we said our goodbyes, they were English, not American: Quick, unapologetic. There were no promises to stay in touch or befriend each other on Facebook. I hoped I would see him again. I did not expect to.

A few days later, someone rang my doorbell. Now, I was in the Lake District. No one knew me or where I was; I had only just disconnected the phone in the cottage: It wasn’t for me. I froze. I couldn’t turn out my lights, which would be an obvious signal to the intruder that I was home, so I crawled into my bed and waited for whoever it was to leave. Then, a couple minutes later, someone knocked on my door. Still, I waited. Then: “Diane? It’s Tony!” I opened the door. “Hello!” I said, hoping no one would say anything about my hiding in my room, and then thought: They’re English. For an American who has just done something embarrassing, there are few things nicer than the English proclivity for not pointing out an unpleasantness.

Tony had figured out where I was staying—Grasmere was a very small village—and brought his wife Ann, so we could talk about our medical conditions. I sat on the stop of my cottage—I couldn’t let them inside, the floor was covered in muddy clothing and potato-chip wrappers and God knew what else—and told her what I knew. I brought out my orange prescription bottles and she carefully wrote down the names of my prescriptions. At a certain point, one of them said something about it being a bit weird, sitting in the hallway of my building, and we went into my room. “I forbid you,” Tony said, as I started to pick up my laundry. Ann and Tony sat in the two armchairs, me on my bed. They seemed very much in love. I desperately wanted them to be my grandparents.

Literally across the street (read: lane) from my cottage, there was a tea room called Baldry’s, and at it, they served the most delicious food to be served anywhere for 20 miles, and I say that as someone who would quite happily subsist on a diet of Gu if it were more socially acceptable: hot chocolate topped with actual whipped cream, scones, homemade butter. Every afternoon I would go there and order the exact same meal (what I’ve just listed, plus a salad.) The waiters were the kind of waiters who would say “Fuck me” when a crowd of a half-dozen walkers poured in 20 minutes before closing time. Basically, it was heaven, and before I met Ann and Tony, it was my favorite thing about the Lake District. In relegating Baldry’s to second place, I remembered something I seem condemned to relearn, over and over: No matter how many beautiful hikes, inspiring peaks, Cham ruins, Shinto temples, Elizabethan castles, palm-fringed beaches, Guggenheims, Louvres, city parks, country parks, helicopter rides, oceanside nightclubs, winery tastings, all the shit we read about and I write about for travel magazines, five-star restaurants, five-star hot chocolates: Nothing encountered on a trip will ever mean more than the right people, at the right time, in the right place. The people are always, every time, what matters, what is remembered, and what is worth going back for.

P.S. I don’t think I look much like this picture, but that’s exactly how I remember Tony.

I love making up little rules for myself when I travel, even if I’m weak-willed enough to break most of them. (“Just 30 minutes more Internet time and then I’ll go outside.”) There is, though, one rule I come back to, over and over again, and it’s flexible enough that it can be applied to almost any travel quandary I have, and point a way forward: Be where you are. I often do not be where I am: I often be where I was, or where I am going, or where I wish I were. I have more trouble with being where I am. It is, though, something that offers incremental rewards: Even if I can’t be 100% faithful to it, 100% of the time, I find that it rewards me as much as I can be. So I come back to it, in all different kinds of situations, and it usually has something to suggest.

I totally get it if someone just wants to conk out on vacation: That’s why they call it vacation, and that’s why God created delicious tropical drinks that are even better when they include coconut and mini umbrellas. I have been on the sort of vacation where you don’t even leave the hotel because—the outside world. Who needs it?

Generally, though, I like to travel, rather than vacation. Vacation is expensive, and can get a bit repetitive; travel, I think, can be self-sustaining, and is always interesting, even when it is awful, even when it is Thanksgiving and you’ve spent the last 20 hours throwing up all over the floor of a hotel bathroom in Laos and then took an amazing, nine-hour bus ride to another part of the country, by which time you’d recovered just enough to have one bite of apple pie before throwing up again. (LOL: Thanksgiving 2009, it was awesome!)

Anyway: This is how I try to get as close to an authentic, or at least somewhat informed, trip as I can.

P.S. I just met someone (not American, not Brazilian) who said he formed his primary opinion of American women through watching Sex and the City repeats in Poland, and I was like, dude, at least watch Girls.

My list:

1. There is never a good reason to go to Starbucks outside our borders.* If there isn’t a better local cafe in the city you’re visiting, you may need to change cities.

2. There is rarely a good reason to go to McDonald’s outside our borders. (That said, I once saw a McDonald’s in Beijing after four weeks in Russia and Mongolia and almost cried as I ordered my Chicken McNuggets and French fries. With happiness, to be clear.) Still.

3. There is absolutely never a good reason to go all the way to New York City and spend half your shopping money at American Eagle, Hollister, Sephora, or any other store you have at your local mall. This is true in all cases except for the four-story Times Square Forever 21 that’s open until midnight, because that one is an only-in-New York Spectacular, and Spectaculars are always fair play.

4. There’s no reason to go all the way to Europe to shop at H&M if you live within 300 miles of an H&M in America.

5. There is no reason to go all the way to Europe and buy American brands at twice the price and three times the hassle of carrying it home.

6. Before you get on the plane, pick 10 phrases and keywords in the language in which you are about to be immersed, and memorize them. My favorites are: “Thank you,” “Sorry,” “Yes,” “No,” “Excuse me,” “Where are the bathrooms?” “How much does this cost?” “May I have the bill?” “Is there wifi here?” and “What time does this store close?”

7. There is no small thrill in being able to communicate an idea in an unfamiliar language (honest to God I got the woman at the juice bar tonight to understand that I wanted my acai “to go” and felt like I’d won a Nobel prize.) Rosetta Stone costs about four times as much as it should but has good pronunciation drills. Duolingo is fun and free and nearly as good. And there are teenagers and college students worldwide looking to pay their rent by speaking in their native language to you over Skype for $25 an hour.

8. While you’re on your trip, make a point of learning at least one new word every day and use it in conversation at least three times the following day, even if it is completely obvious you are shoehorning the word “senha” into your convo with the waiter for no particular reason.

9. Forget working out in the hotel gym, which is nearly always sad. What can be a total drudge—keeping up a workout while you’re on vacation—can be an awesome way to experience a place. I’ve done beach-running in Rio, hiking in the Alps in Switzerland, and 10-mile walks along National Trail in Britain. And the best thing is, they were all free.

10. Pick up a pedometer and see how many steps you take on a normal day. (My number when I worked an office job was disturbingly low—sometimes under 4000.) If it’s under 10,000, try to double it each day of vacation. You’ll get to see loads more up close and personal, and go back to your routine healthier than you left it.

11. Figure out three definitive movies from the country where you’re visiting and Netflix them. For Brazil, I watched Central Station (awesome), Bus 174 (disturbing), and Elite Squad 2 (ditto). Rough Guides always has really good suggestions, or you can Google that country’s recent Oscar submissions.

12. If you’re too tuckered out to move one night, spend an evening not downloading American TV but watching local TV, even if you can’t understand a word. If nothing else, it should reinforce the fact that everyone, worldwide, loves a talent show.

13. Use Spotify to figure out the top 10 songs where you’re headed. The results may be shocking.

14. Google “best [destination country] book 2012″ and if it’s available in translation, read it.

15. Google “best poem [language of destination] [country of destination]” and find a few that have been translated to English. Pick one that might have some sort of relevance and commit the first 10 lines to memory. I was at the gym, weirdly enough, watching the Brazilian version of Sportscenter, when they showed this tiny little poem (which apparently they thought had something to do with soccer): “Quem tem alma nao tem calma.” Which means (very roughly) “He who has soul lacks calm.” Lovely!

16. Figure out the classic English-language travelogue for where you’re headed. When I was headed to the Balkans last year, it was Rebecca West’s “Black Lamb and Gray Falcon.”

17. Go somewhere only the bus goes. Lots of attractions are only reachable by rental car—which can be (a) stressful and (b) expensive—or by bus, rather than train, which is usually faster and easier. One bus-only example is Inhotim, which is this super awesome art place in the jungle near a city called Belo Horizonte. I find the bus like 90 times harder to deal with than anything else: There’s less chance of someone speaking English, more chance of having to communicate with the ticket agent, the driver, his conductor or ticket taker, whoever. But it was worth it.

18. Try a “private room” on Airbnb. Generally I prefer to get an “entire apartment” if I can afford it—I’ve found that there’s always something acceptable on there, and for way less than a hotel room—but I’ve come around to renting a room in an apartment and having temporary roommates for a couple days. I stick to apartments owned by women (no reason to tempt fate any more than necessary) and try it out on quick trips—maybe a weekend away. The prices, even in expensive cities, can be impossible to beat, except by a dorm bed in a hostel—which, by comparison, often offers the chance to meet people just like you, from the same place that you came from, getting the same drinks at the same bars you’d be going to at home. Which is not the point.

19. If at all possible, learn to drive a stick.

* Unless you need free wifi.

So I’m Brazil working on a writing project. (Also: drinking an unbelievable amount of mango juice, not speaking Portuguese incredibly well, getting all excited when I don’t get lost on the bus.) And because (as everyone knows) writers spend 98% of their time not writing, I thought about maybe trying to pitch some magazine stories while I’m here. And then I thought: That is a really bad idea.

For bazillion years (a standard unit of time, apparently), I made my living as a magazine writer, both on staff and freelance. This was, in many ways, an awesome thing, because I got to meet awesome people and ask them questions (Ryan Gosling, three times, is the highlight) and work with even more awesome people. In my experience, people who work at magazines are nearly always smart and funny. They are not always kind, but the ones that are are generally also smart and funny, so you have a recipe for the best people ever. I met a lot of them.

Magazine work is less good, I think, for writers. If writers actually want to be the editor of a magazine owned by someone else—then by all means, they should get an ASME internship at Conde, beg your way into an editorial assistant job, work your way up, enjoy lunch at the 4TS cafeteria, spend a lot of money on clothes (a professional requirement, no joke), and work their way up the ladder. I think, though, that if you want to write other things, like books, that magazine work is the absolute worst job in the world. Don’t get me wrong: It is fucking fun. At NYLON, I had a desk coated in free beauty products, I sat between two of the best people I’ve ever met, and I got to interview people I would otherwise have never met. But if you want to be a “real” writer, in my opinion, it’s both too close and too far: too close in that you always feel like you’re writing (but about someone else’s amazing project) and too far (because you’re not working on your own amazing project.) It’s not to say that magazines can’t be creative unto themselves—they 100% can be. (Have you read Lula? Or Frankie?) But unless you’re working at your own magazine (which I have done, will do in the future, and wholeheartedly endorse), you are probably spending 90 years trying to get one tiny creative idea approved. That is not a good use of time.

This brings me back to the best piece of writing advice I ever got. It was—bada bing: Don’t write for a living. At least, don’t sort-of write for a living. It came courtesy of, of all non-writing people, my computer science teacher at Columbia, who said, quite clearly: We don’t have to study (or work) what we love. That was him trying to convince me to switch from English to computer science—which, knowing what I know now, I would have done. (I would also have flunked out of school, but whatevs.)

I think it’s uniquely hard for writers to do this, because what we do lends itself so naturally to commercial applications (the difference, say, between writing prose poems and writing display copy for a story on crop tops is huge in some ways but quite small in others.) It is easy to be a “writer” without being the kind of writer you might have wanted to be. I don’t know—maybe this happens to, like, landscape architects who stumble into selling bouquets of chrysanthemums on the side of the road, but I sort of doubt it. But if I were starting out again, I would studiously avoid magazines. At least, magazines that I didn’t own. They’re buying a product. They will rewrite your work until you don’t recognize it. They will de-voice your content and replace it with their own—unless you have an extraordinarily deft and confident editor. And it’s easy for an ambitious person to watch this process and think: I really need to get better at this, and thus embark on a struggle that will not have a happy ending.

Did I mention that from pitch to paycheck, a year can pass?

Chekhov was a doctor. So was William Carlos Williams. Mario Puzo, for goodness sake, wrote The Godfather while working in a train yard.

I have a bit of perspective on this now. (Distance helps, with everything, but especially with perspective.) If I were talking to a younger writer—heck, if I were, like, talking to myself, because sometimes that’s a valuable thing to do—I would encourage myself to learn as much as possible about everything in the world, and explore that world, and challenge myself intellectually to do what did not come easily. (English majors = coming easily for writers.) It is easier to write about the world when you participate in that world, and devise a way to communicate your experiences of that world in an interesting and authentic way. (If you haven’t read this, read it.)

Don’t get me wrong. I love magazines, and under the right circumstances, I am truly wild about working for someone else. (That’s true even though I strongly believe people (especially women) should own their own ventures, as much as possible—we should own our ideas and profit from them, rather than selling them for pennies on the dollar.) I hope I will have a magazine job in the future that is as much fun as the ones I’ve had. But I hope most of all that I am lucky enough to swing into and out of that world, and when out of it, spend as much time as possible learning about other shit—enriching, weird, interesting shit, even if I don’t work in a train yard. I’m not sure how many more books the world needs about young people working at magazines. (And I say that literally having written one, and having felt kind of ashamed about it the entire time.)

Speaking of: If you haven’t read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, that book is famous for a reason. A day job and a room with a door on it. It’s taken me a long time to accept this, but now that I have them (an awesome day job and a room with a door, even if I would like it even more if it came with a better air conditioner), I see how easy they are, and what a world of difference they make.