There are places you want to visit because they’re famous such as Paris, Rome, and Walmart the day after Thanksgiving. Actually, I’ve never done the latter.  And then there are places you want to visit because a movie you might have watched once (or maybe just saw the trailer for?) made it look charming.

For me, that place was Mystic, Connecticut. Yes, that Mystic. The home of Mystic Pizza, Julia Roberts’ breakout movie that I don’t actually remember a single plot point from. I’m not even sure I’ve technically watched it. But cultural osmosis did its job. I still felt this strange, long-standing pull to go there as if my pop culture-loving soul needed closure.

So this past weekend, I finally did it. I went to Mystic.

What I found was a small, picturesque town with more charm than plotlines I could recall from the movie. There’s a tiny historic district that looks like it time-traveled from the 1800s, only with more artisanal ice cream and craft cocktails. The Mystic Seaport Museum was the highlight. It’s an outdoor museum that’s part history, part nostalgia, and part “please don’t let it rain.” It’s like Williamsburg but with boats and sea shanties. There was even a little lighthouse, which, as anyone who knows me knows, is basically catnip for my soul.

We had a lovely dinner at a great Italian spot. There were locally sourced ingredients, cocktails with mysterious bitters, and a bartender who clearly knew his audience. That being tired travelers in search of a story.

And oh, we got one.

Somewhere in our cocktail-fueled enthusiasm, we decided to go in search of a “hippo bar”. A quirky, highly rated place on Yelp that promised whimsy, wonder, and possibly water buffalo-sized margaritas. We drove. And drove. And… well, never found it. The address led us to rural Connecticut twilight, where GPS confidence meets existential dread. It was either a mirage or a COVID-era speakeasy that didn’t survive. Either way, the joke’s on us or maybe, the journey was the destination.

In the end, Mystic lived up to its name. It was mystical, historical, culinary, and just a bit elusive. I left full, slightly windblown, and satisfied that even small towns can hold big surprises and that sometimes, you don’t need to fully remember the movie that inspired the trip. You just need to go.

After all, isn’t that what traveling, and life, is about?

Finding meaning even when the hippo bar refuses to be found.