If you want to be a tourist, don't book a trip with me. Coming on a Maison d'Amies trip means trusting me with the whole thing, the food, the schedule, the moments I ask you to try something new. This week in Avignon, I learned something about what I owe guests before they ever say yes. Here's what happened, and what I'm doing differently.

I'm the eldest daughter. I am also the eldest granddaughter. If you are one of us, then you know what that means. If you're not, lemme educate you. It means we've been the back up moms to everyone long before we could reach the top cabinet without a step stool (although who am I kidding…I still have a step stool).

I've been carrying a version of a never ending to-do list since I was a kid letting myself into an empty house after school. And to all my fellow adders out there, I want you to know that when I say come spend a week with me, I know exactly what I'm asking you to hand over for seven to ten business days. And I promise you, I don't take that lightly.

Let's talk about Provence for a second.

When most women start researching a retreat in the south of France, they picture lavender fields. Rosé at noon. A farmhouse with shutters the color of a faded sky. Maybe a market or something where someone is selling you soap that smells like the entire region smashed into a single bar.

Four years ago, Maison d'Amies was a sentence I said out loud to my hubby: "I want to start a small-group travel company for women, in France." That's it. That's all it was. And to his credit, he (as always) encouraged me to do the damn thing.

People sometimes ask me how I design a retreat experience that feels so personal. How does it feel like someone actually knows you, even on the first trip? The honest answer isn't a system or a checklist. It's relationships. Years of them. Carefully tended ones, on both sides of the experience, with the women who travel with me, and with the remarkable local people who make what I do possible.