Niau

Forget Parisian rooftop lounges or pretentious desert observatories-if you're after a night sky that will rearrange your cosmic perspective (and humble your inner astrophysicist), you head to Niau, a speck of paradise in the Tuamotu Archipelago. Here-under skies untouched by the electric buzz of civilization-you'll join locals who still harness the stars to pilot canoes across unimaginable ocean distances, a skill perfected centuries before GPS (or Yelp, heaven forbid). Arrive a solid hour after sunset-when darkness truly kicks in-and pack a flashlight (preferably one with a red filter to preserve night vision), bug spray, water, and a sense of cosmic curiosity. Arrange your stargazing at least a day ahead; spontaneity is lovely, but Polynesian navigation demands a certain ceremonial respect. Budget-wise, you'll shell out more effort than cash, though slipping your guide a grateful tip is good celestial karma. As you sip coconut water beneath an incandescent Milky Way, trying to trace Orion's Belt while battling mosquitoes, you'll realize the universe is absurdly grand-and worth every itchy bite, if only for the bragging rights back home.

Ah, whale watching-the peculiar human pastime of voluntarily bobbing around the deep ocean, eyes peeled, stomach slightly churning, waiting to glimpse a massive mammal elegantly flipping its tail. From May to October, these ocean giants migrate along nature's version of Route 66, offering spectators the kind of performance that's been thrilling humans since Jonah took his infamous whale detour. Head out early, preferably at sunrise, when the sea is calmest and fewer tourists threaten your prime boat real estate. Book ahead-a couple of weeks at least-and budget around $50 to $100 per person, unless your vessel is captained by a suspiciously enthusiastic, peg-legged old mariner, in which case bargain hard. Pack sunscreen, motion sickness pills, and binoculars, because Murphy's law dictates the whales breach precisely when you're distracted reaching for more pretzels. Even if your majestic leviathan decides to remain elusive-and all you see is a distant spout accompanied by ten blurry seconds of footage-the sheer absurdity and grandeur of chasing creatures larger than school buses across open water will secure you bragging rights for years. That, and it's always a good story to casually drop at dinner parties: "Did I tell you about the whale who ghosted me in the Pacific?"

If you've ever fantasized about ditching civilization for your own private spit of sand, an overnight stay on a remote atoll is-admittedly-the gentlest possible version of that fantasy. Far from trendy resorts and Instagram influencers, these tiny punctuation marks of sand and coral are scattered like breadcrumbs in the middle of nowhere, made famous mainly by shipwreck survivors, WWII naval scrap-ups, and the occasional eccentric millionaire in self-imposed exile. To preserve your sanity (and avoid becoming a cautionary tale), arrange this little escape at least several weeks ahead, hire a local boat operator who knows a throttle from an anchor, and budget around $200-$400 depending on how much chic Robinson Crusoe swagger you're after. Early afternoon is an ideal arrival time-plenty of daylight to pitch your tent, navigate your small cooler of provisions (rum in some form is highly recommended), and politely introduce yourself to curious crabs and sea turtles who clearly didn't get the memo about your reservation. Pack a flashlight, insect repellent, a journal for existential contemplations, and whatever modest protection you think you'll need against existential dread at 3 a.m. when you realize you're but a speck on a blue marble suspended in indifferent cosmic vastness. Still, trust me: you'll wake up to one of those blazing, surreal sunrises, silence broken only by whispering surf and the mocking laughter of seabirds, feeling smugly superior to every poor schmuck stuck in traffic or staring at Excel spreadsheets. Even if solitude isn't your thing, even if nature generally bores you stiff-do it anyway, because "that night I spent alone marooned on a coral dot" is universally recognized as barstool gold.