It was the spring of 1895.

I remember standing upon the deck of the SS Teutonic, my waist disciplined into a corset that permitted neither a full breath nor an opinion of my own.

Thirty gowns were carefully packed away in my steamer trunks, and my social calendar was already more crowded than the ship itself.

We were crossing the Atlantic, you see, and one simply did not arrive among fashionable society unprepared.

One did not  wander up to a stranger and inquire about the weather. There were protocols to observe, reputations to preserve, and entire family histories to consider before extending a gloved hand.

And then, somewhere between the turning of centuries and the loosening of corset strings, I found myself in another world.

The romance of travel had not disappeared. It had simply changed its affections.

In this new century, the heavy brass locks of my steamer trunks have vanished, and the world has become wonderfully accessible.

Yet the modern age poses a question that would have been entirely unthinkable to the woman I was in 1895:

What’s the best way to meet new people while traveling?

What sensible soul crosses an ocean simply to seek out company?

No, I came to look upon the wide world, desiring only to lose myself among its towering trees and ancient stones.

What an exquisite pleasure it is to wander through a foreign city, to gaze upon an unfamiliar horizon, and to watch the sun disappear—all without the burden of a single introduction.

There is a certain romance in being unknown, in wandering without expectation, and in allowing a place to reveal its beauty without the slightest obligation to be noticed.

Once, I traveled to be seen. Now, I travel to see—and to fall in love with the world entirely on my own terms.