In this edition of our ‘Travel Writers Test AI Travel Advice‘ series, a local must obey a ChatGPT-generated day trip in Denver, Colorado, which encourages the writer to explore her hometown with fresh eyes.
It’s 7:21 am, and I am resentfully drinking a full glass of water while the rest of my family sleeps. I am not a morning person. I don’t believe in “winning the day.” And yet here I am, stretching for five minutes in my kitchen because ChatGPT told me to.
Here is the prompt I gave ChatGPT to plan this day:
“I’m a Denver local and want you to plan a perfect day for me. I don’t want to make any decisions, so no options, just instructions. I don’t eat shellfish, and it’s February. I have three kids (8, 10, and 13) and a spouse who should be included in parts of the day.”
“7:00 am — Start Before the Day Can Ask Anything of You”
The answer began earlier than I’d like with instructions to drink water, stretch, dress in “warm, capable layers,” and be out the door by 7:30, alone.
I finish my water and stretching, then slip out the door to head off to my first stop, setting my phone to “Do Not Disturb” as instructed.
“7:45–9:30 am — Red Rocks, No Witnesses”
ChatGPT’s instructions were short but specific throughout the entire day. This section told me to:
- “Drive to Red Rocks Park & Amphitheatre, upper lot.
- Walk the amphitheater steps slowly.
- Sit halfway up. No music. No photos.”
In theory, it’s an excellent recommendation. Red Rocks amphitheater is iconic. Rust-colored sandstone frames the skyline, staircases cut through the rock, and it’s a favorite destination for locals. In practice, the timing doesn’t work. Red Rocks is a 40-ish minute drive from my house, so I don’t arrive until just after 8.
The second challenge is that, instead of “no witnesses” when I arrived, there were dozens of locals running the stairs, hiking trails, and participating in what appeared to be a full bootcamp class at the summit. Red Rocks in the early morning is less a meditative retreat and more a communal cardio ritual. Still, I made my way up the stairs slowly and found a place to sit in the sun. My next instructions were fully cringey: “Open your Notes app and write: ‘I’m allowed to want more than efficiency.’” It felt generic, but I wrote it.
I hung out for as long as I could, but ended up leaving this stop a little earlier than 9:30. In my defense, ChatGPT’s instructions were “Leave when your body says it’s time.” And as someone who had yet to have breakfast, or even sadder, coffee, my body said it was past time.
“10:00 am — Coffee & Reentry”
Next, I’m directed to go to Corvus Coffee on Broadway and order my “real coffee”. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I ordered a latte even though some may disagree with my interpretation.
I hadn’t been to this coffee shop as it’s across town, so I was curious. It was a pleasant surprise. Corvus, to ChatGPT’s credit, was a strong recommendation. The space is modern and bustling, with a rotating pastry case that feels closer to a curated dessert counter than a typical coffee shop. On this particular Sunday, the display included king cake donuts and mini butternut squash quiches.
There aren’t specific instructions about food, so I chose a coffee and a mini-quiche for myself and a box of pastries to take home to my family. Was it bribery because they had to go along with my afternoon of mystery plans? Absolutely.
It’s unseasonably warm, so I sit on the patio and soak up the sun. While I’m here, I have my next instructions to “Journal for 10 minutes,” so I get to it. The journaling prompt—“What feels heavy? What feels possible?”—leaned into AI’s fondness for vague self-optimization. It was harmless, but I didn’t really get into the experience the way I might have if I had been writing based on my own thoughts and ideas.
“11:30 am — Rejoin Without Resetting”
At home, I hand out the pastries, which go over well and help with the instructions of “Everyone eats a quick, functional lunch at home. Leftovers, sandwiches—no ceremony. You’re not lingering. You’re transitioning. Out the door again by 12:15 pm.”
My kids have been prepared for the fact that they will have to go on unknown adventures with me for part of the day, and when I ask them to get ready by getting together snow clothes, they look at me like I’m crazy. It’s 68 degrees and sunny, and they are all wearing shorts. In fact, there hasn’t been snow in Denver in several weeks, which makes me wonder about what will happen at our next stop.
I forge bravely ahead and get my children to compromise by agreeing to bring waterproof layers. We are out the door on time, on our way to the next step in the day’s adventure.
“12:45 pm — Move First, Think Later”
ChatGPT’s instructions here were oddly brief: “Drive to Ruby Hill Rail Yard. No expectations.”
Ruby Hill is a city park in southwest Denver. It’s residential and local. Unlike Red Rocks, this isn’t a marquee attraction. In fact, I’ve only been here once in the past, a fact I vaguely remember.
Ruby Hill isn’t postcard Denver, but once we arrive, the appeal is obvious. Ruby Hill Rail Yard is a collaboration between Denver Parks and Recreation and Winter Park Resorts, offering free features for skiers and snowboarders of all levels, including equipment rental and free tubes for the sledding hill.
I briefly wonder if there will be anything to sled on, but the snow is machine-made, so it operates even on warm days. And the people we pass walking to the park in ski boots and shorts give me hope.
I’m going to be honest. This was my favorite part of the day. At the sledding hill, we piled into tubes in increasingly hilarious configurations. We’d climb off the sledding hill and end up with grass-covered knees. We watched skiers and boarders doing tricks and wiping out. We tubed again and again until we overheated, and my kids begged for shade and cold drinks.
Unfortunately, ChatGPT had other plans.
“2:15 pm — Warmth & Fuel”
I feel like the weather forecast should have been included in the planning somehow. Maybe I’m asking too much from my AI, but we definitely didn’t need any more warmth. Either way, we set off to our next directed destination–Denver Central Market.
This is a beloved favorite, so I knew exactly what I was getting into. It’s a food-hall-type space in a converted warehouse, and my kids always appreciate the opportunity to choose their own meals. Instead of “warmth,” my kids opted for smoothies with their lunch. I, on the other hand, was ordered to choose something “hot and grounding.”
I tried to commit to a bowl of soup, but I failed and moved on to a new option that was better suited to the temperature.
The next step of the plan also didn’t pan out. “Sit until the internal volume drops” was ChatGPT’s poetic advice, which is definitely not suited to a bustling Sunday food hall in one of Denver’s busiest neighborhoods. Denver Central Market is loud — dozens of large groups shouting over one another, and vendors calling orders through the echoing ceiling. If anything, the volume rose until one of my kids covered his ears with his hands and asked to leave.
So, we adapted. We took our food outside into the sunshine again, where the noise dispersed to a manageable level and the experience vastly improved. We even ran into a friend operating her Denver Fashion Truck out front, an unplanned but distinctly local bonus that no algorithm could have predicted.
“3:45 pm — The Intentional Split” & “4:15–5:30 pm — Solo Reset”
I’m jealous of the instructions given next for my family: “Drop the kids and your spouse at home. Screens allowed. Rest encouraged.”
I want to rest, too. But I must continue to my next stop: The Tattered Cover bookstore on Colfax. And I have to admit this is an unimpeachable choice. It’s one of the city’s most well-known and beloved bookstores. And it’s the closest to home I’ve been directed to all day.
My instructions here were “Buy one book for yourself and one for your children.” With their age ranges, it would be hard to pick one that all three would enjoy, so I ignored the ambiguity and bought one book for each child. And in a strange twist, this is actually one of my favorite souvenir strategies. Whenever I travel, I often bring a book home for my children from a local bookstore.
The next instruction I absolutely hate. “Sit and read the first page of yours before leaving.” Why one? Why not two? Why not twenty? Why would I sit and read for three minutes, then get up and leave? So I went rogue and ignored it. Instead, I ordered a coffee and read two whole chapters.
And I have no regrets. That change made this the most restorative stretch of the day. As written, the stop would have felt hurried and pointless. As adjusted, it was exactly the break I needed.
“6:30 pm — Dinner Together, Done Right”
ChatGPT’s original directive was confident: “Go to Potager.” The problem? It was Sunday, and Potager was closed, as we quickly learned. After a quick digital regroup with some specific guidance about eating dinner at home, ChatGPT pivoted to takeout from Safta, a popular Mediterranean & Israeli restaurant.
The revised instructions were detailed, telling me exactly what to order: “pita + spreads, roasted vegetables, one hearty protein, and one carb-forward dish everyone can share.” And exactly what to do: “transfer everything to real plates and bowls, throw away the containers immediately, light one candle, everyone changes into soft clothes, music low, and use lamps, not overhead lights.” On paper, it read like a heavily curated lifestyle spread. In reality, ChatGPT has obviously never attended dinner in a household with three children.
“Eat slowly,” the instructions continued. “Let conversation wander. Let silence happen. You don’t wrap up dinner. You let it dissolve naturally.” In our home, dinner dissolves naturally, but not in hushed candlelight, and there is never silence. Dinner time often ends in a sudden, passionate debate about why someone should be allowed to watch an episode of Dragon Ball Z, with at least one person stomping away to their room.
Perhaps the most unrealistic part of this day, though, was the idyllic ending ChatGPT planned.
“8:30 PM — End Without Forcing an Ending”
“Lights low. Music quiet. Read. Sit. Drift. The day doesn’t need a bow. It already landed.”
Considering my house at 8:30 feels a bit like the monkey enclosure at the zoo, this was wildly incompatible with reality. Also, I’m a night owl, as evidenced by my non-morning persona. I’m not drifting in dim lights at 8:30. So I didn’t even try to incorporate this set of instructions into our day. Since we were at home, I figured it would be fine to just let it go.
By the end of the day, I had logged nearly two and a half hours in my car, visited every corner of the city, and attempted a candlelit dinner in a house that rarely dips below conversational chaos. Still, the day landed well, especially when I adjusted the plan to fit reality. And maybe that’s the real takeaway: the best trips, even in your own city, will always require a human touch.
