These eight Americans were kind enough to share their most treasured places with us. Maybe their stories will inspire you to visit one of these spots. Or maybe you’ll get the urge to return to your own happy place—one you’ve been away from for too long.

Grammy Award–winning jazz singer

SO FEW THINGS in life are permanent. The house I grew up in got torn down. People come and go. But Sunset Cliffs is a forever place.

I was recruited to college in San Diego on a football scholarship. Coming from the hot and dry agricultural town of Bakersfield, Sunset Cliffs felt tropical and exotic. Ocean waves crashing on the rocks. A sea cave with a hole open to the sky.

My father died when I was 20 and my mother died when I was 21, and going to Sunset Cliffs brought me solace. It gave me hope that I could be happy again. I had a ’68 Lincoln Continental, and I would drive out to the cliffs and just sit and reflect. I wrote my first songs at Sunset Cliffs. The title of my first album is Water.

After my brother died from COVID in 2020, I went back. At Sunset Cliffs, you can cast your cares upon the water. Just being there makes me feel lighter.

Academy Award–winning actress, singer and songwriter

AS A CHILD, I was in love with reading and obsessed with books about elves and fairies and gnomes—all those magical worlds. So when my mother would bring me to the Old Mill, a 1930s reproduction of an 1880s water-powered gristmill, it felt like I was entering a storybook. It’s just a magical place, especially in the springtime, because there are lots of flowering plants and trees. It has even been in the movies—you can see it in one of the opening shots of Gone With the Wind.

North Little Rock, where I grew up, is across the river from the state capital of Little Rock. The capital city was always considered the spot where all the important and beautiful things were, but we kids always felt so proud that we had our own special thing in our town, and that was the Old Mill.

I’ve probably been there more than 50 times; I still take friends there. It’s a really special, unusual, beautiful place. It’s like the physical manifestation of all these worlds that I used to love to dream about.

Humorist

IN COLLEGE I thought, Oh my God, the Palmer House is just it. The hotel is in that part of downtown where the big department stores were. The lobby would bustle with tourists from other parts of the Midwest. I was broke as a student, but I would go to the coffee shop every Friday and linger over my little cake.

Whenever I’m back in Chicago, I can’t help but think of my younger self and how I’m living the life I dreamed about in those days. I’m delighted the Palmer House is still there. They don’t have that coffee shop anymore, but I love the memories. They used to have those standing ashtrays outside the elevators, and someone would stamp the hotel logo into the sand. I literally wanted, when I died, to have my ashes put in the ashtrays of the Palmer House hotel and have their logo embossed upon my remains. I think the ashtrays are gone now too.

Cohost, CBS Mornings

YOU KNOW THAT song “Walking on Sunshine”? That’s me in Marina del Rey. I love strolling along the docks and looking at the sailboats that I’ll never have. You can watch people on kayaks or fishing boats, and parents taking their children on bike rides. And you’ll usually see seals or sea lions soaking up the sun.

Both of my kids live in L.A., so I visit the area often. In Hollywood, it feels like most people are either looking for a job or losing a job. But the marina is a more casual part of the city. Even the seals look happy.

Life is about creating moments when you don’t think you’re creating them. Walking around the marina isn’t a big-deal experience like going to Disneyland. It’s only when you look back that you gain an appreciation for something like that. I’ll remember a conversation. Or I’ll be at my desk in New York City thinking about how good the L.A. sun feels on my face when I’m with people I love.

Former astronaut

GETTING A PH.D. is stressful. You’re not sure if you’ll ever get there. Much of my research time was spent in an optics lab at Stanford University where we blocked out the light because we were working with laser beams. Getting outside after spending all day in complete darkness was liberating. As often as possible, I would head to the Dish.

The Stanford Dish is a satellite dish with a big radio antenna in the foothills west of campus, and there’s a three-and-a-half-mile loop around it that is my favorite walk. When you get up near the top, you can see from San Jose to San Francisco. It’s a beautiful place.

In 1981, near the end of my first year at Stanford, the space shuttle flew for the first time. Then two years later, Sally Ride, who also studied at Stanford, became the first American woman in space. My walks around the Dish were when I first started thinking about the astronaut program. As soon as I got my Ph.D., I applied to NASA.

Years later, on my second shuttle mission, we flew over the Bay Area. I had a fairly large camera lens, and I could pick out the campus—the red-tiled roofs, the Dish. I could see where it all started for me. Whenever I go back to Stanford now, I see the Dish and think, This is where my life took wing.

Best-selling author of Pachinko

MY PARENTS COULD never take me to bookstores. That was for rich people. It wasn’t until I was in college that I was able to buy books. While at law school in D.C., I would go to Politics and Prose as a treat.

I never thought I’d be a writer. It didn’t feel like a real job to me. But I remember going to a reading at Politics and Prose that the author Ethan Canin gave. I remember thinking, This young guy is a literary genius, but he’s also just a lovely person and real.

When I was a debut author myself, Politics and Prose was one of the first places that invited me to do a book event. At my first reading there, it felt like this sense of arrival. Today when I visit the shop and sit on the floor with a stack of books, I think, There’s both struggle and joy behind every one of these titles.

Best-selling author of The Know-It-All and The Year of Living Biblically

IT’S GOT WATERFALLS. Delightfully cheesy mini golf. A pond with a dozen ravenous alligators. What’s not to love about Smugglers Cove? We’ve been visiting the course on trips to Florida since my three kids were little. Now that they’re bigger, our mini golf battles have become a great equalizer among three generations.

My wife’s stepmom lives nearby. Granny is very good at actual golf, but she doesn’t always beat the kids at mini golf. They kick my butt sometimes, too, and I’m OK with that. To me, it’s a delight when the next generation can outdo you.

I’m a big fan of rituals, and going to Smugglers Cove has that ritual quality for me. Every step of the way is meaningful. The grownups will usually place bets with the kids. For example, if the parents get a hole in one, no one gets ice cream afterwards. Although, to be honest, we always end up eating ice cream anyway. It’s a tradition!

Actress, model, singer and two-time Grammy Award winner

MY GRANDMOTHER’S family worked hard on Hawai‘i’s sugarcane and pineapple plantations. There were 11 kids, and they all lived together in a tiny hut. Later, my grandparents bought a house in Kalihi, which is where I grew up. I have always been acutely aware of how fortunate I am to have traveled so far from these humble beginnings.

Maybe it was a premonition, but when I was a kid, I dreamt about soaring like a bird above the Ko‘olau mountain range. These are the towering mountains I saw each morning when I went to school. They look like an open accordion rising from the depths of the Pacific Ocean.

Ever since I can remember, these mountains have connected me to the truest part of myself. I’ve hiked for nine hours to reach the top. But if you’re not up for the climb, there’s Pali Lookout. You can just drive there and take in the view. It’s humbling to feel how ancient these mountains are, that there are things much greater than us that we need to respect.