Every year, a short list of curated journeys lands in our inbox from a vacation club that we belong to — trips already vetted, already designed, already priced. Greg and I go through them together, which sounds civilized but usually involves some negotiation. Last February, he landed on an Iceland and Norway expedition cruise. I was looking at a Bordeaux land tour.

We’re boarding the Scenic Eclipse I in Reykjavik on Saturday.

I didn’t say no — I rarely do when Greg has a strong pull toward something, because his instincts have earned some trust over the years. But I did say “yes, and…”. Yes to the expedition and exploring the beautiful places on the itinerary. And… the dining needs to be exceptional. And… there needs to be wine worth drinking. And… I am not sleeping in a bunk or giving up a balcony.

Those weren’t unreasonable conditions. They were just specific and ensured that the trip would be something we would both enjoy.

Scenic Eclipse I carries a maximum of 228 guests — smaller than most boutique hotels — with a crew of nearly the same number. Every suite has a private balcony and a dedicated butler. There are up to ten dining venues aboard, ranging from contemporary French to Asian fusion to an intimate Chef’s Table for eight, with a culinary philosophy built around the ports and regions the ship visits. Nine bars and lounges. A Discovery Team of up to twenty specialists leading excursions and evening lectures. Greg gets his expedition. I get the luxury.

When we committed to this I felt cautiously optimistic, weighted toward the cautious end.

Iceland, the Faroe Islands, the Scottish Isles, and Norway’s fjords are not destinations I would have necessarily chosen on my own. My instincts pull toward warmth, toward cities built around food and culture, toward the kind of afternoon where you sit down for lunch on a sidewalk cafe and don’t quite notice it becoming dinner. I have spent considerable effort building exactly that kind of travel, for myself and for clients.

But my cautiousness about this kind of travel, adventure and the outdoors, has been misplaced before.

Africa was on Greg’s bucket list. As I wrote about last month, we went for his fiftieth birthday, and I was not especially excited going in, but I came home changed in ways that I’m still processing.

Patagonia was the same shape of story, just a wildly different location. I had never thought of myself as much of a hiker, but I genuinely enjoyed it — even the afternoon in Torres del Paine National Park when the wind was so strong that I had to squat to the ground to keep from being blown over and we had to abandon the hike entirely. We stayed at The Singular Patagonia, a hotel built inside a former sheep-processing plant from 1915, with the original machinery still displayed in the corridors between buildings. We ended the trip at &Beyond Vira Vira in the Lake District, a lodge on the Liucura River near Pucón where the kitchen draws from an organic farm and cheese dairy on the property. The hikes through waterfalls and forest felt like a completely different country from the wind-scoured plains of Patagonia we’d just left. Both properties were exceptional.

That combination — adventure at the right scale, great food and wine, the ability to end each day well — is the thing I’ve learned I actually need to love this kind of travel. Without it, the experience tips from exhilarating into exhausting. With it, I tend to come home having loved something I didn’t expect to love.

We are currently in London before making our way to Reykjavik for a couple of days before we board. The sailing itself covers multiple stops in Iceland, the Faroe Islands, the Orkney and Shetland Islands (Scotland), and fjords of Norway before ending in Bergen. I’ll have more to say about all of it once I’ve lived it.

For now, Greg is pleased. I am, as it turns out, (mostly) looking forward to it.