I have always preferred traveling in the off-season.

Yes, it is less expensive, but that is hardly its greatest luxury. The crowds disappear. The streets become streets again. Tables sit empty beneath the vines, and a road may stretch ahead without another soul upon it. For a few glorious days, it seems as though someone has handed you an entire country and whispered, Go on. Have a look around.  

When I choose a place, I study its history first. I trace it back to the first settlers, digging down to the very bedrock of the culture. I want to know what stood there before I did.

I pack lightly. One must, after all, leave room for the things one has not met yet.

There must be room for books, dresses, something made by hand, or some peculiar little treasure. I may have no idea what it is, but suddenly I cannot imagine going home without it.

Speak with the locals. See what nobody has bothered to put in a brochure.

Then, occasionally, take the wrong road on purpose.

The critics travel with their tape measures, quantifying the softness of a hotel mattress and the thread count of the sheets. They study the map so closely that they never look at the sky.

What a tragic, suffocating, grand laugh!

My soul has never consented to be imprisoned by the mere thread count of a bedsheet. The truth is, the luxurious mattress may be nothing more than a clever disguise—a velvet blindfold designed to keep you from looking at the ancient earth beneath your feet.

Because you can buy a ticket to anywhere, but you cannot buy the eyes to see it.